


Ficlets

by CanonCannon



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Daryl!whump, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, Internalized Acephobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Temporary Blindness, ace!Daryl, carzekiel (mentioned), original feline character, referenced miscarriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2018-10-28 14:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 23,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon
Summary: And then suddenly I wrote a bunch of tiny fics on tumblr for no reason.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402358) by [Flintstone_cap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flintstone_cap/pseuds/Flintstone_cap)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would they have cats or dogs? (prompted by anon)

“Paul…”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“Thing’ll probably die anyway, you realize that.”

“ _Thing_  will be just fine. And thank you for naming her.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Hey there, Thing. No, no, it’s ok,” Paul soothed when the tiny furball arched its back at him. He knelt down and took off his beanie, then scooped the kitten up and cradled it in the wooly hat. The temperamental creature purred like an engine a few moments later, digging its claws into the fabric.

The warehouse was freezing–the cat probably liked that the beanie was still warm from Paul wearing it.

Scowling, Daryl said, “Gonna ruin that hat, man.”

But Paul wasn’t listening. “Hey kitty kitty kitty,” he said softly, stroking one little gray ear with his forefinger. “You’re ok, we’re gonna take care of you now.” Smiling widely at Daryl, he added, “Glad we have the car instead of the bike.”

“You seriously want another mouth to feed? At least we could train a dog to be useful.”

“I promise if we find a dog out here someday we’ll adopt it, too. And cats can be useful, right? Don’t they hunt mice?”

“Not if you spoil ‘em with treats and human food. Which you  _will_.”

Paul didn’t deny it.

Daryl let out a defeated sigh. “It’s not living in the trailer, Rovia. It’s either an outdoor cat or it’s target practice.”

“Oh shut up, Thing is trying to sleep.”

As they walked back to the car, Daryl couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Yaint really naming it Thing, are you?”

“Nah. I’m naming her Dixie,” Paul said decisively, and laughed as he dodged Daryl’s kick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Daryl wants a dog. Paul strikes me as a cat person.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which one of them is better with kids? (prompted by AJWmagickl)

Daryl hadn’t always been good with kids, but watching Paul with Judith, he didn’t think he’d ever been  _that_  bad. The man was a mess. Judy had him literally on his knees, one of her fists tangled in his hair and a blissful expression on her chubby toddler face.

Paul’s hands hovered uselessly near her arm; he seemed scared to touch her, even to save himself a bald spot. As Daryl watched from the doorway he pleaded in a gentle (if slightly pained) voice, “Ok, Judy, honey, please stop that. Sweetheart-” she tugged hard, yanking his head closer to the ground “-fuck! Wait, no, never say that word, ok?” She tugged again in response. “Oh my god, where is your father?”

“He got held up,” Daryl said, grinning at the way Paul startled. “Sent me to get her. You need some help?”

“ _Please_ ,” Paul replied, and Daryl stepped into the room to rescue him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: I suspect Paul is better with older kids since he grew up in a group home, but Daryl's better with the tiny ones.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is the big spoon and who’s the little spoon? (prompted by m0usi3l0us13)

Wiping blood from his face, Paul lurched up the road towards the gate. He was close. He was really close. He refused to pass out when he was this goddamn close to making it home safely.

Why did Hilltop have to be on top of such a big fucking hill, though?

The night was bright thanks to the full moon, but Paul still couldn’t see anything more than a darkish blur up ahead, which meant the guards at the gate wouldn’t be able to see him, either. The Saviors had taken his flashlight, his lighter, all his knives and even his fucking shoes, the bastards. And the worst part was that Paul couldn’t even kick their sorry asses, because until they were ready to make their stand the Saviors needed to believe Hilltop was full of meek little sheep people.

Tripping in a pothole, Paul suddenly went down hard, scraping his palms on the gravelly road. Dizzy despite being braced on his hands and knees, he tried to consider his options.

He wouldn’t risk calling out, not when it could bring strangers or roamers closer to home.

He wasn’t sure he could get up again.

But it turned out that he didn’t have to–he heard two sets of boots running towards him, then Daryl’s soft curse.

“You were waiting for me,” Paul said, warmth spreading through his chest. Turning to Maggie, who really shouldn’t have been running with her little pregnant belly, he added, “My boyfriend has good night vision.”

“Some blood loss, at least,” Maggie said, ignoring him. “Maybe a concussion?”

“Fuck,” Daryl replied succinctly, and manhandled Paul until he was carrying him bridal style up the hill.

Embarrassed and exhausted, Paul finally decided to let himself pass out.

When he came to he was on his side in their bed, wrapped up in Daryl’s gorgeous arms. Someone must have forced some sort of pill into him because the pain was gone, and all he felt was safety and warmth.

He tried to turn to face Daryl but the other man just tightened his hold. “Go back to sleep. And next time keep your damn blood inside your body where it belongs.”

“No concussion?” Paul asked groggily.

“Wouldn’t’ve let you sleep otherwise, now shush,” Daryl said, so Paul snuggled in again. The last thing he felt before falling asleep was a soft kiss pressed to his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Daryl's the big spoon. Fight me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which one is more likely to make breakfast for the other? (prompted by anon)

Jesus woke up with a start as a granola bar hit him hard in the face.

“Time to go, Sleeping Beauty!” Daryl called as he banged out of the front door with his crossbow. “Meet me at the bike.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even shorter answer: ... neither.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does their first kiss happen? (prompted by anon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is more tumblr post than fic, but I decided to include it anyway.

Ok, it happens like this:

Daryl moves into Paul’s trailer so he can be close to Maggie and baby Hershel.

Paul likes the awkward loner and starts bringing home any cigarettes he finds on his runs. Then he starts bringing home other things: bolts, lighters, a throwing knife. Then pickled pigs’ feet. Laundry detergent. A fake fish that starts singing when you walk by it.

Paul flirts with Daryl the same way he flirts with everyone else, and eventually Daryl seems to resign himself to being friends with “that little shit.” Daryl flirts back, or maybe he doesn’t—he continues to be inscrutable. Paul doesn’t know if Daryl even likes men.

They spend more time together. Just the two of them, on runs that last for days. Daryl talks, just a little, about his brother. Paul mentions that he majored in art history in college. That he misses luxuries like spending Saturdays at a museum.

They are practically living in each other’s pockets, setting the Hilltop gossip hivemind buzzing. No one seems to know if Daryl likes men, but everyone knows Paul does. Maggie jokes a few times that the two bachelors would make a cute couple and Paul wonders if she finds it funny because it’s sort of true or because it’s completely absurd. He doesn’t ask her. He doesn’t admit to himself that it bothers him.

On a scouting run to check out a hospital near D.C., weeks after Paul mentioned missing museums, Daryl steers their motorcycle into the parking lot of a modern art museum. After killing some pretentious-looking walkers they waste the whole day looking at paintings when they ought to be driving home. Paul explains each piece as best he can: the artist, the era, the composition. Daryl is clearly incredibly bored but he listens anyway.

After devouring every painting like a rabid, starving animal, Paul wants to devour Daryl, too. He wants to get on his knees and get comfortable there awhile. Paul’s favorite of the paintings was the blue Rothko and he wants Daryl leaning against it while he blows him.

Now Paul flirts with Daryl completely differently from the way he flirts with everyone else. He  _still_  doesn’t know if Daryl likes men.

Sharing the trailer becomes more complicated after the museum; the complication is that Daryl is observant.

Daryl is observant and Paul gets hard all the goddamn time, at the most ridiculous things: Darylwithwethair and Darylconcentratingonapuzzle and Darylcoveredinenginegrease and Darylsmiling and Daryljustexisting. Paul’s honestly offended at his body’s lack of dignity. It’s bad enough when it’s the sensible stuff, the stuff that would get anyone going: Darylbendingover and Darylwithoutsleeves and Darylasleeponthecouchwithobviousmorningwood and Darylchanginghisunderwearrightinfrontofhisgayroommatelikeafuckingasshole.

Paul doesn’t know if Daryl likes men, but thinking that he might gets him hard, too.

So Paul sleeps with Alex and feels sick with himself afterward. Then he does it a few more times.

Daryl wakes up sobbing from a nightmare. He won’t tell Paul what it was about, but Paul holds him while he cries. He holds him afterwards. Daryl doesn’t stop him so he climbs under the covers and holds him all night.

Daryl isn’t even that awkward about it the next day.

Paul stops sleeping with Alex. He stops flirting with anyone besides Daryl. He still doesn’t know if Daryl likes men.

So he pushes Daryl against the wall of their trailer and finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Paul initiates after a loooong build up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who’s more likely to get super drunk? (prompted by m0usi3l0us13)

Sinking into the sofa next to Rick, Daryl tried to focus on what his brother was saying. Something about trading bullets for dried fish, boring shit like that–Daryl found himself flashing back to the prison, when he couldn’t get a word out of the man that wasn’t about his fucking tomatoes.

Against his will, Daryl’s eyes kept flicking over to check on his drunk boyfriend, who was doing a pretty good impression of being straight as he danced to some pop song with Rosita. Christ.

Rick caught him looking. “You need to get him home?” he asked, amusement obvious in his voice.

“Nah. He deserves to blow off some steam,” Daryl said, then added quickly, “Can Eugene even make the caliber bullets they want?”

He and Paul had just come out as a couple the week before. Paul had promised no one would care, but he’d been dead fucking wrong about that–Daryl’s family was obnoxiously happy over the news, Rick especially. He kept bringing it up, a lot less subtly than he probably thought. Like he was personally invested in Daryl getting laid or something.

Seconds later Rick’s comparison of different kinds of shell casings was interrupted by a blur of motion, and suddenly Paul was straddling Daryl’s lap in front of God and everybody. “Hi there, lover,” the drunk little shit said with a grin, tilting his head in a way that wasn’t even a little bit adorable.

Beside him on the couch, Rick was laughing harder than Daryl had seen since… hell, maybe ever.

“Yeah, you’re done for the night,” Daryl muttered, pushing Paul away gently before standing to take his arm. Paul didn’t resist, just grinned sappily at him.

“Goodnight, Daryl. Paul,” Rick called, still chuckling a little.

Flipping him off, Daryl dragged his boyfriend to the door.

“You love me,” Paul said happily as Daryl herded him down the empty street.

Daryl blinked. They hadn’t really talked about love yet, but, well… “Guess so,” he replied, softly enough that Paul wouldn’t hear him.

Then he held Paul’s hair back while the lightweight puked in Aaron and Eric’s planter.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Daryl drinks when he's depressed, but Paul is more likely to actually let loose. Also, re: the dancing with Rosita, I just have this head canon that Paul was a clubber at some point and used to like to dance.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which one of them is more likely to show off to try to impress the other? (prompted by AJWmagickl)

“Shoulda let me shoot ‘em,” Daryl grumbles as he and Jesus march back towards Hilltop. “Weren’t no need for you to ninja-kick your way through. Only ten of ‘em and the crossbow’s safest.”

“You’re just mad I stole your thunder,” Jesus replies with a wink, hands in his pockets. “Don’t worry, you were still very impressive.”

“I’m just mad you almost got bit, asshole,” the archer snaps back. Then, realizing he’s shown his hand more than he liked, he adds, “That, and I’m surprised you don’t mind getting walker gunk all over them pretty clothes.”

“Aww, you really think they’re pretty? Cause this outfit's all for you, babe,” Jesus says, waving at the guards on the gate to let them in.

The hell of it is, Daryl thinks the little prick might just have shown  _his_  hand, too, because Jesus is blushing as he turns to walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Both :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who helps to get them together? (prompted by wendydarlingfics)

“You don’t have to be so mean to him,” Carol said with a slight frown.

Daryl could hardly believe his ears.

“ _Me_? Have you seen the shit he pulls? My bike on a raft in the middle of the damn pond, glitter dumped on my head when I open the closet, box of cigs swapped out for patches–in my fucking pocket, Carol–and-”

“Glitter in the closet, huh?” she interrupted. “Pookie, you know Jesus is gay, right?”

“So what?” Daryl grunted.

“Lord, give me strength,” Carol intoned dramatically. “Daryl. Sweetie. He likes you.”

Daryl felt like he’d walked full tilt into a glass door. “Nah. Asshole’s just bored since the war ended, likes fucking with me-”

“No. He would like  _to_  fuck you. And he’s not subtle about it.”

“Christ, shut up,” Daryl said harshly, looking around, but of course she didn’t.

“He’ll stop if you just tell him you’re not interested. But you two keep going at it like little boys chasing each other around the playground.”

For some reason that pissed him off more than all the rest combined.

“You got it wrong.” When she tried to interrupt yet again, he talked over her. “Nah, you do. Have you  _seen_  him? _And_  he’s good,  _and_  he can fight,  _and_ -”

Daryl cut himself off. Carol was staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and he couldn’t figure out why she was looking at him like that. He didn’t want to know, anyhow. Fuck her opinions and her meddling, she didn’t know what she was talking about.

As he spun on his heel and stalked away from her, Daryl missed the moment Carol’s face broke into a smile.

–

“You’re going about this the wrong way, Paul,” Maggie said as they watched Carol and Daryl walk away. Daryl’s ears were bright red where they poked through his hair.

Paul hummed lightly, hands clasped behind his back. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Paul would only really confide in Maggie, if anyone. Someone would have to tell poor Daryl what was happening--either Carol, Rick, Tara, Maggie, or (eventually) Paul himself.
> 
> The pranks mentioned are inspired by Andy Lincoln and Norman Reedus's real life prank war, which I adore <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was Merle Dixon actually homophobic? (prompted by wendydarlingfics)

“But ya like pussy, too, right?” Merle asked incredulously.

Holding a bag of frozen corn against his eye, Daryl shook his head dejectedly.

“Have ya tried it?”

Daryl nodded.

“Huh.” Merle squinted down at his teenaged brother. He wished he could be high for this conversation, but it was probably best all around that he wasn’t–if he’d been high he wouldn’t have been able to stop their drunk father from beating the living hell out of Daryl, for one thing. Damn kid never fought back.

Well, apparently he was queer, so maybe that explained it. Or maybe he was just too damn skinny to get a good punch in.

“Alright, so you’re a fag, ain’t the end of the world. But Pa ain’t open-minded like old Merle. Ya gotta keep that shit out of the trailer. Use your goddamn imagination when ya need to jack it.” Pausing, Merle considered how else he could help Daryl before returning from leave. “Doubt he’ll remember, but if he does we’ll tell him I put the skin mag in your room to fuck with ya, ok?”

His baby brother nodded again, obvious relief sweeping over his face as he finally relaxed a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Yes, but he loved his brother.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who apologises first when they fight? + Who is more likely to hold a grudge? (prompted by queenofwands78)

 

 

 

“Go easy on him,” Maggie said quietly as she and Paul watched Daryl moving slowly towards Hilltop. It was a bright, clear day, unlike when Daryl had left. He’d stalked away in the rain with just his crossbow and knife.

That was three days ago.

“Seriously?” Paul asked, jaw so tight he was giving himself a headache. “After this tantrum, that’s your advice? ‘Go easy’?” The relief and anger both felt overwhelming, and it didn’t help at all that Daryl looked like he’d been outdoors rolling in mud and walkers the whole time he’d been gone. Paul had assumed he’d fled to Alexandria, but Daryl was dragging a deer back from somewhere north.

“You think he went to the Kingdom, maybe?” Maggie asked, as if reading his mind. “Talked to Carol, got the deer on his way back?”

“I don’t really care which closet he tried to climb back into.”

Paul didn’t mean that. Of course he didn’t. It just fucking hurt that Daryl was  _this_  ashamed of them–ashamed enough to go hide in the woods for days because a few people found out and teased him a little.

“Stop that.” Maggie turned to the guys manning the gate. “Could y’all go meet him and help?” Neither looked enthusiastic–Daryl’s temper preceded him–but they went.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Maggie rounded on Paul. “You are not going to be childish about this.”

Paul huffed, eyes glued to Daryl’s approaching figure. “I’m not the one-”

“Hush. This is new to him. He didn’t have pride parades and gender studies classes. Instead he had a daddy who-” She visibly reigned herself in, took a deep breath, and started over. “I know it shouldn’t matter, you know it shouldn’t matter, but to Daryl it still does. He asked you not to tell anyone yet, and even if you didn’t mean to give it away, you did. He wasn’t ready for people to know, and now they do.”

But Paul snagged on the one thing she hadn’t meant to say. “What about his father?”

Maggie pursed her lips. “Well, you’ve seen his back.”

“I haven’t. We’re, uh, we’re taking things slow. Why, what’s on his back?”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Paul put it together.

Down the road, Eduardo and Kal met up with Daryl. For once he seemed happy enough to have help, dropping the animal entirely and continuing to trudge up the road while the other two men took over. Daryl glanced up briefly, eyes roving until he spotted Paul. The next moment his hands were tight across his stomach as if he was nauseated. His head was down again.

Abruptly Paul turned away and climbed down from the guard tower. Maggie called after him but he ignored her.

He was going to need a minute.

–

“M’sorry,” Daryl said as soon as he walked into their trailer. He looked utterly pathetic with his clothes dirty and covered in blood, his head bowed to let his hair hang in his eyes, and his fingers clutching the strap on his crossbow like he was dangling from it over a cliff.

“No, I’m sorry,” Paul said quietly. He’d walked into the trailer and viciously attacked the punching bag hanging in the corner until some of the rage dissipated. Then he’d sat on the bed to wait for Daryl’s arrival. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. Maggie just guessed, Enid and Carl overheard and… I’m sorry, Daryl. You didn’t want to tell people yet and I fucked that up.”

“Ain’t your fault Maggie’s too smart for us,” Daryl replied. He was looking up now, meeting Paul’s gaze. “Ain’t your fault I’m a fucking coward, neither.”

Shaking his head, Paul stood. Walked over. Pulled the crossbow off Daryl’s shoulder and took his hand to pull him towards this bathroom. “You’re not a coward. You’re motherfucking Daryl Dixon, badass of the apocalypse.” He smiled gently at his boyfriend. “Now go get cleaned up, I hear there’s venison for dinner.”

Lip caught between his teeth, Daryl pulled Paul into a hug–a disgusting, bloody, muddy hug. “Don’t deserve ya.”

“You’re right. You deserve better,” Paul said, giving up on staying clean and burrowing his head against Daryl’s shoulder. He could feel blood wetting his hair. After a moment he said, “Ok, now you really do have to go shower, because I’m going to need one before dinner, too.”

“Room in there for two,” Daryl said, sounding steady and sure, pressing his forehead into Paul’s like a cat.

“Yeah… yeah, ok,” Paul replied, and they moved together towards the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answers: Daryl apologizes first, probably regardless of whether or not the fight is his fault.
> 
> Paul is more likely to hold a grudge against someone he's close to. Daryl can hold a grudge against an enemy or acquaintance, but he melts like butter for Team Family, in part because he usually assumes he's in the wrong if he's fighting one of them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What kind of music do they listen to? (prompted by anon)

 

It took Daryl a moment to realize what had woken him. He was supposed to be at a party at Aaron’s but was ditching to sleep after being on watch all night. Everyone else was supposed to be there, too, so what the fuck was that low hum siphoning into his room from the hall?

Gently levering himself off of his bed and opening his door, Daryl stalked down the hall with his hand at his knife hilt. The noise was coming from the bathroom—someone was humming in the shower.

That should have made him feel better, but the voice didn’t match anyone he recognized.

He got right outside the room and the hum became full-on singing. “ _Message keeps getting clearer, radio’s on and I’m moving round the place… I check my look in the mirror, wanna change my clothes my hair my face…_ ”

Brow creasing, Daryl tried to figure out what to do. On the one hand, it wasn’t likely that some maniac had snuck into Alexandria to sing Springsteen in their bathroom. Still, the door wasn’t visible from the shower stall and the hinges didn’t squeak–so long as whoever it was didn’t end their shower at exactly the wrong moment, he could peak inside just to be safe.

Daryl cracked the door. Steam poured out of the room and he heard, “ _This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just dancing in the dark._ ”

Immediately recognizing the vest and coat discarded carelessly next to an undershirt and some dark blue boxers, Daryl snapped the door shut instantly. Of course it was Jesus using so much hot water, that prissy idiot. Putting on a fucking concert.

He had to admit, though, that he liked the guy’s singing voice.

Christ, that sounded gay. It was just that Jesus wasn’t mangling the song, that was all Daryl meant.

Standing for a long moment outside the door, he listened as Paul sang, “ _I’m dying for some action, I’m sick of sitting ‘round here trying to write this book. I need a love reaction, come on now baby gimme just one look…_ ”

Daryl glared at the door, shifting his weight uncomfortably, trying to figure out what was bothering him so much about the whole scenario. It was dorky music, fucking Springsteen, and yet he liked it. It was Jesus, and yet-

The shower turned off and Daryl bolted silently down the hall, closing himself into his room again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: No fucking clue, I just found this particular song hilarious for Paul and Daryl.
> 
> Fabulous 80s music video for this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=129kuDCQtHs


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted (sort of) by museme87.

Daryl was going to do it. He wasn’t a fucking coward and he was going to say something. Being gay was fine now, there was no reason to be afraid of saying something, _coming out_.

So Daryl was going to.

It was fine. Besides, the other three men in the car liked dick, too. This should be easy, a practice round for when other people inevitably found out—Carol and Maggie and shit, Rick.

Hell, Daryl’d known Eric and Aaron for almost two years, they’d probably already guessed. They weren’t really the point, though.

Jesus was the point. For reasons he didn’t care to examine too closely, Daryl wanted Jesus to know.

Jesus, sitting there with his hair in some kind of knot on top of his head, bright eyes crinkled with laughter at Eric’s story about some gay bar they’d both been to in D.C. Must have been a pretty sleazy joint; Daryl felt his eyebrows climbing higher and higher as they talked. Apparently Eric had been kinda wild before settling down, but Aaron didn’t seem to mind. He was laughing even harder than Jesus.

Some of the details made Daryl want to bail out of the car and take his chances walking to Oceanside. He knew his ears and neck were bright red; Jesus kept glancing at them.

After what felt like an eternity, Eric’s story about watermelon-flavored lube, two drag queens, and a runaway groom with a limousine finally wound down. Seizing the moment, Daryl stuttered out, “Weren’t stuff like that where I’m from.”

Beside him, Jesus just smirked and shook his head. “Daryl, I assure you gay people lived in rural Georgia, too. We blend in pretty well when we aren’t out clubbing in rainbow gear and stilettos.”

Daryl willed himself to spit it out. _Say it. Fucking say it. “I know. I blended in, too.”_

Eric broke in, “He didn’t mean it like that.”

Jesus shrugged, sitting back a little. He threw a half smile at Daryl. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Let’s stop talking about our misspent youth, though, or Daryl’s ears will be permanently dyed red.”

“Jesus,” Aaron admonished softly.

Desperately, Daryl spoke over him. “Just meant there weren’t bars like-”

“I’m sure there were-”

“Nah,” Daryl interrupted, going for broke. “Not near me. Not when I was young.”

Silence filled the car. Daryl would have liked to look at Jesus’s expression, but found he suddenly couldn’t move his eyes from the window. The coast flew by unseen.

“Did you… check?” Aaron asked carefully.

“Yeah,” Daryl replied, still looking out the window.

The awful silence returned, and for a second Daryl would have given his right arm to go back in time, even if it meant enduring Eric’s raunchy story again.

Then Jesus piped up, “Well that’s a damn shame. We’re going to fix this.”

Nonplussed, Daryl turned to look at the man beside him. Jesus was smiling and his eyes were kind. His voice, though, was very insistent. “Oh, you heard me, Dixon. When we get back to Alexandria you’re getting the full gay bar experience. We’ll get Tara in on it, maybe find some lasers, a fog machine…”

“We can all wear something naughty? Fishnet shirts and short shorts?” Eric said, turning fully around in the front seat to face Daryl with a grin. Aaron sent him a quelling look, the effect somewhat spoiled by his own soft smile.

The image of Jesus in that getup crossed his mind and Daryl thought his ears might actually catch fire. “No. Fuck no.”

But Jesus was nodding along. “Exactly! It’ll be fun. I’ll make Slippery Nipples-”

“Make what?” Daryl asked, aghast.

“It’s a cocktail. And we’ll dance to Madonna.”

Daryl stared in horror and Jesus cracked up, doubled over with his hands covering his face.

Christ. The little shit was fucking with him. “You’re such an asshole.”

“I really am,” Jesus agreed with a cheerful wink. “But not as much as this one guy I hooked up with at this club in L.A., let me tell you, the sex was ah-mazing but when I woke up the next morning…”

Daryl cringed and blushed the whole time, but couldn’t stop himself from chuckling as Jesus described waking up on the beach covered in glitter and missing his car keys.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon.

Sitting helpless in a tree just waiting for dark was agony.

An hour ago Jesus had run back towards their camp after catching Daryl’s high “danger, don’t approach” whistle. By the time he got there Daryl was gone, their small fire kicked out. The motorcycle was still hidden a few yards away, so whoever attacked didn’t search around much–just grabbed Daryl and their gear and took off.

The strange thing was, it didn’t look like Daryl had put up much of a fight. Jesus wasn’t the tracker Daryl was, but he was pretty sure he could only spot two extra sets of footprints and no sign of a struggle.

By the time Jesus had found the strangers’ camp and hitched his way up a tall tree, some gorilla was beating the shit out of Daryl. There were maybe fifteen others milling around, including two kids and a pregnant woman, all ignoring the spectacle of Daryl being questioned again and again about where he lived, who he was with, where he was going.

For about half an hour, Daryl just looked bored. Then the guy got in his face.

“Don’t do it,” Jesus whispered urgently. “Come on, stay calm, don’t-”

Daryl smashed his bleeding forehead into the gorilla’s nose.

“God damn it, Daryl.”

Jesus watched as the guy howled, wiped blood from his face, then started using his boots instead of his fists.

Perched in his tree, Jesus grit his teeth, wincing with every kick, wondering if he was going to have to intervene before nightfall. Before he could decide how to do it, though, the guy finally let up, leaving Daryl slumped on his side covered in dirt and blood. He was already bound hand and foot, and a few seconds later he was thrashing as the gorilla pulled a roll of duct tape from his belt and wound it over his eyes and mouth.

Then the asshole kicked him one last time in the gut, hard, making Daryl curl into himself on the ground.

Clenching his fists, Jesus waited.

–

Knocking out the lookouts was easy. Sneaking into the camp was easy. Forcing himself to pull the duct tape from Daryl’s face was hard.

–

“Jesus, c’mon, man,” Daryl whispered. But Jesus had turned and spotted Wong, the massive prick that had been interrogating him earlier, and suddenly Daryl found himself being gently pushed against a tree.

The guy was busy taking a leak over by the group’s vehicles. There was no way he’d seen them.

Jesus didn’t hesitate. He just leaned Daryl against the tree and took off. Half a second later he was behind the guy. Another half-second after that, the guy was on the ground, neck snapped and a knife wound at the base of his skull.

Staring, Daryl jerked his hands in question as Jesus darted back to him–because seriously, what the fuck?

Jesus just shrugged and settled himself under Daryl’s arm again, supporting most of his weight. “Come on. They didn’t find the bike.”

–

Hours later, in the medical trailer at Hilltop, Daryl woke up gasping. Some unknown nightmare bled away into the dim early morning light as he lay there panting in the empty room.

“Need some water?”

Daryl startled and jerked his head around, heartbeat spiking all over again. The place wasn’t empty after all. Jesus was sitting on the floor by the doorway, nearly out of view, using the hallway light to read.

“Nah,” Daryl rasped out. “M’fine.”

Jesus hummed and turned back to his book.

“You can go, y’know. Didn’t haveta sit there all night.”

For a minute the scout didn’t reply. Then he said, “Why did you let them take you? I saw the camp. You hardly resisted.”

In pain and already almost asleep again, Daryl didn’t bother trying to lie. “Was a pregnant lady and her man that got me. Looked ready to pop.”

“Of course,” Jesus said. Daryl couldn’t read his tone. “You’re too sweet for this world, Daryl.”

“Aw, shut the fuck up,” Daryl replied lazily as he drifted off.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon.

Paul is holding Maggie’s limp hand when he hears it from Sasha, who’s really telling Harlan, not him. “Negan took… do you remember Daryl? With the angel wings? Negan just… _took_ him. Just said ‘He’s not a little bitch so he’s mine now’ or some bullshit like that. Do you know what- you’ve known these assholes longer, do you know what he’s going to- what he’ll do-”

Sasha starts crying again. Harlan puts his hand on her shoulder, and Paul is frozen at Maggie’s side.

No one knows about him and Daryl.

“He’ll be alright. The Saviors- they have my brother, he’s a trauma surgeon. They take people they can use. Daryl will be fine if he just plays along.”

“Then he won’t be fine,” Jesus says, too submerged in his own panic to feel more than a flicker of guilt when Sasha sobs harder than ever.

—

He’d almost drowned, once.

Mr. Mulligan had taken all the kids at the group home to the lake. Paul had been new at that point, parents barely underground. Even in his grief he’d loved every second of it, playing alone in the clear, cold water, until some of the older boys surrounded him under the dock.

He’d been so hurt, so confused over why none of the other kids seemed to like him, but mostly he’d been filled with a cold fury that terrified him with its intensity.

He’d almost drowned, but he would have taken the biggest of the bullies under with him if he had.

—

The thing is, Paul had thought he’d been careful. Careful has been the name of the game since this whole shitstorm got started. He has a few friends at Hilltop and he tries to help the people there, but he keeps his distance. He doesn’t lose his head when he loses a friend; he can’t get that close to anyone anymore, not if he wants to survive.

So even though it had all happened fast—looking at Daryl and thinking _yes please_ , getting him to talk a little, charming him into bed, getting him to talk a little more—he’d thought he’d at least been _smart_ about the whole thing.

But as he pulls his bandana over his face and prepares to vault the Sanctuary’s fence, Paul feels that cold fury again and says goodbye to safe distances.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who tops? (prompted by anon)

God, Paul wants it.

He’s gentle and respectful and he loves all the other things they do together in bed, but that doesn’t stop him fantasizing.

To Daryl, getting fucked is a sign of weakness. He doesn’t outright say it–perhaps he thinks it would be rude to, since he’s been fucking Paul since the beginning. And he’d obviously been shocked that first time Paul had slicked himself up and sank down on top of him, like he couldn’t believe anyone would actually _enjoy_ doing that. Shocked and hardly able to breathe through his arousal, eyes rolling back in his head and teeth drawing blood to his lips.

Then Daryl had side-eyed him the whole next day, tracking his steps around Hilltop as if mystified. Now whenever Paul bottoms Daryl acts like it’s some huge favor. He can be quite rough at other times, but in this he treats Paul like something delicate, a soap bubble or a sapling.

Paul doesn’t think Daryl looks down on him for taking it up the ass, exactly, but the man’s feelings on the matter are obviously complex.

So when Daryl asks for it, naturally Paul is cautious, even though just the _idea_ of it has him hiding his crotch with a book.

“S’just, you do it for me all the time,” Daryl says awkwardly. Then again he says almost everything awkwardly on the rare occasions when they try to talk about sex, so that might not mean anything.

“That’s because I like it, Daryl. You shouldn’t feel obligated-”

“I don’t,” Daryl replies quickly.

He obviously does.

Tilting his head, Paul considers. “How about we try just using my fingers first, huh? See if you even like it. Some gay men don’t.”

Daryl shifts his weight. Paul wonders if he doesn’t like hearing that word in connection with himself. “But you don’t- I mean, what’s the point a’that for you? Just using your fingers?”

Paul holds back a smile at his sweet, innocent boyfriend.

–

Later on, though, when he’s had Daryl shaking and sweating, red-faced and literally screaming his name just from two fingers and the shortest blowjob in history, he doesn’t hold back his smile at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Most mlm couples I know switch it up, at least sometimes, so that would be my guess for them as well. I do think Daryl would have some issues with bottoming, at least at first.
> 
> In terms of who tends to guide their sex life, I definitely think that would be Paul.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which one brings the other gifts while on runs? (prompted by anon)

When they finally broke, crashing into each other behind Paul’s trailer, they had been frantic, pulling at each other desperately. Daryl smacked his head hard against the metal wall. Three buttons were torn from Paul’s shirt.

They’d also been interrupted before they could get anywhere interesting. Rick’s voice calling for Daryl brought the whole thing to a halt in an instant and the Alexandrians had returned home, leaving Paul to hurry into his trailer with a gaping collar and a lot of frustration to work off.

Paul spends the following few days praying that Daryl won't chicken out on him the next time they get some privacy.

The Alexandrians return a week later. Daryl hadn’t been scheduled for this trip yet there he is, fumbling over his words on Paul’s doorstep moments after the R.V. pulled through the gates.

“I, uh, I found ya a new shirt… figured you’re a size small, right?” God, Daryl just looks so uncomfortable, holding an ugly green button-down and keeping his eyes glued somewhere to Jesus’s left. “Got it on a run. Sorry for… ya know. Ruining the other one.”

“That’s funny, I went on a run this week, too. I got you this.” Reaching behind him, Paul grabs the little sewing kit he found in the glove compartment of a Lincoln. “Because I’m really hoping you’ll ruin a few more for me.”

Daryl blinks once. Twice.

Then Paul’s being tackled to the floor of the trailer, the door banging shut loudly behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Both.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted (sort of) by anon.

Paul entered the trailer to find Daryl sitting cross-legged on the floor, head in one hand, knife in the other.

“Uh… is there a reason you’re stabbing our floor to death?”

Without glancing up, Daryl used his free hand to wave towards something else on the floor beside him, something Paul recognized all too well: his own notebook.

“Did you stab that, too?” Paul asked.

His fiancé ignored the teasing. “How’re you such a good writer? Like, who the fuck sits down and can just-”

“Daryl,” Paul interrupted, “is this your way of telling me you’d rather use traditional vows? Because that’s fine.”

“That or you gotta write mine for me, cause I sure ain’t gonna be able to come up with any goddamn- goddamn _poetry_ like you got there.”

Smiling, Paul sat next to him on the floor. “I don’t care what you write, you know, or what vows we use. I just want to marry you.”

Daryl stabbed the floor a few more times before sighing. “I feel it, you know? Just- couldn’t _write_ shit like that, not if you gave me a million years.”

“Traditional vows it is, then,” Paul replied lightly, taking the knife and putting it back in its sheath.

“Yeah,” Daryl nodded, looking relieved. After a moment he picked up Paul’s notebook and added shyly, “M’gonna keep these, though.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pulled from real life a little. My wife is more comfortable with coding than writing.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which one of them opens up about their problems first and how? (Prompted by anon.)

 

“I get that you’re ‘Jesus’ or whatever, but ya don’t gotta keep doing this.”

“I’m not _doing_ anything,” Paul replied, frowning. It was true. The night was cool, Daryl had a fire going, and Paul was simply sitting beside him.

It was pleasant, really, to be outside with Hilltop this quiet. Paul had never needed much sleep and usually he’d be reading in his trailer at this hour, but he didn’t want to keep Maggie, Sasha, and Enid awake with his light. And sure, the fact that Daryl was always lingering somewhere outside the trailer like a feral cat was an added inducement, but-

“I see how ya look at me. Ain’t gotta pretend.”

Jesus froze. He very much hoped Daryl did not see how he looked at him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Guy deserved it, ok? He weren’t no innocent. None a’them pricks are. So if you’re waiting for me to say I was wrong-”

Oh. That. “I’m not. I’m not, Daryl.”

Scowling, Daryl continued hostilely, “Then what, Sasha put ya up to this? Keeping an eye on me?”

“No, Daryl, Sasha did not put me up to sitting by a fire with you.” Enid sort of had, but Daryl didn’t need to know that.

“Why ya always around, then?”

He knew he could shrug it off, but instead Paul paused. Considered. “Ok, this is going to sound like some kind of bad joke, but it’s really not: I got trapped in a closet once.”

Daryl’s eyebrows shot up.

“My parents were big partiers,” Paul explained. God, he hadn’t told this story in about a decade. He didn’t talk about himself, usually, but it would feel… almost _selfish_ , somehow, not to share this with Daryl. “I’d hide in a closet when they had people over; I must have been five or six, because I was sent to a group home right after I turned seven. Anyway, I was in that closet one night and some of my parents’ friends, they must have pushed a couch in front of the door to make space to dance.”

Frowning at him, Daryl leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He didn’t interrupt, though.

“When things wound down I tried to get out, but I wasn’t strong enough to push it open. So I called out for my parents. Then I cried. Eventually, I screamed. They’d been passed out in their room upstairs, but they finally heard me. Came and let me out.” He still remembered how relieved he’d been to see them because it had felt so foreign, relief replacing his usual fear.

In the soft firelight, Paul could see the deep creases in Daryl’s brow. “How long? I mean, how long were ya…”

“Not that long. More than 12 hours, probably less than 24. But my point is… it’s not the same, not even close, but I heard Negan tell Dwight to put you back in your box. And I remembered how terrified I was back then, after a few measly hours in a perfectly safe closet. You were at the Sanctuary for weeks.”

“S’worse for kids, though,” Daryl said softly.

“Maybe,” Paul agreed.

They lapsed into silence, but Paul could see Daryl was thinking hard as he chewed his thumb and stared into the flames. He was achingly handsome with his arms crossed over his chest, muscles bunching, head tilted back against the wall of the trailer.

“They fed me dog food,” Daryl finally said quietly, shame coloring the words. He pulled a blade of grass from the ground as he spoke, half turned away. “Stupid thing to bother me, right? I’ve eaten worse.”

“Not stupid at all,” Paul said, looking at the fire. He had a feeling Daryl would prefer that to being scrutinized right now, and besides that, he wasn’t sure he had complete control over his face. He didn’t want Daryl to think his disgust was aimed at him.

“Got lost in the woods when I was ten,” Daryl offered next, abruptly. “Gone nine days and nobody at home even noticed. Hadta wipe my ass with poison ivy.”

Paul snorted and immediately tried to tamp down on it–Daryl had just shared something personal–but then Daryl was smirking beside him, so it was ok.

The hunter turned serious again quickly, though. “Sorry your parents were assholes, man.”

“Sorry yours were, too,” Paul replied. Then, feeling like that was quite enough emotional bonding for one night, he added with a tiny smile, “And sorry about your itchy ass.”

“Sorry I accused ya of being Sasha’s spy,” Daryl returned, probably only half-joking.

“Sorry for actually  _being_ Enid’s spy,” Paul answered with a quirked brow.

Daryl chuckled, and it was the first time he’d laughed at all since Denise died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short answer: Jesus opens up first in an attempt to help Daryl, and doesn't really realize how much help he might need himself. After that there's slow, gradual progress over many moons.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon.

“What the hell was that?” Paul snarls once they’re safe in the house again, getting in Daryl’s space and looking like he’s about an inch away from throwing a punch. His face is pure rage.

“Back off, Jesus,” Daryl says warningly, still trying to catch his breath. He means it, too–he’ll knock the little ninja on his ass if he has to.

But Paul isn’t having it. He surges forward, hand gesturing wildly. “Are you- are you fucking suicidal? Or are you truly that stupid? Because that- that was-“

“Got the supplies, didn’t I?” Daryl says hotly. “You’re fucking welcome, by the way.”

“You think I should thank you?! You almost got yourself killed!” Jesus shouts, a vein throbbing in his forehead.

“Who the hell cares- _mph!_ ” He was going to finish with 'about almost,’ but before he can, Paul’s lips are crashing into his.

Daryl shoves him away immediately, heartbeat skyrocketing.

They stand a few feet apart, both panting for breath now. Paul still looks furious as he says, “ _I_ care, alright, you complete and unmitigated asshole? So get your act together.”

 _You didn’t let me finish,_ Daryl could say. Or  _Don’t give a shit what you think_. Anything like that would be fine.

Instead he says, voice cracking slightly, “Ok.”

“Ok?” Paul echoes, getting riled up again before Daryl’s response even registers.

Daryl just looks away.

“Ok.” Stepping close to Daryl again, putting a hand in his hair, Paul adds more calmly, “Fine. Ok.”

His mouth is gentler the second time around, and Daryl doesn’t push him away again that night.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon, based on the line "You're my favorite welcome home."

Walking in through the door after being away for two weeks, first at the Kingdom and then scouting close to D.C., Paul honestly just wanted a shower, food, and sleep, in that order. So it more than caught him off guard when he was suddenly pushed roughly against the trailer door seconds after opening it.

It took a several moments to realize he wasn’t being attacked, and by the time it sank in he had Daryl pinned on his stomach on the floor with one arm wrenched behind his back.

Paul said, “Shit, sorry! Sorry!” at the same moment Daryl was saying, “Son of a- was just trying to- fuck’s sake, Paul, let me up.”

Daryl squirmed beneath him and Paul moved his knee off his boyfriend’s shoulder and rolled away onto his back, feeling guilty. It was just about the first time Daryl had really made a move on him; usually it went the other way around.

Daryl stood in a huff, hurrying towards the kitchen.

Not before Paul saw what he was trying to hide, though. A grin tugged at his lips and he leaned up on his elbows. “Hold up, you _liked_ that.”

Daryl snorted, turning to the kitchen. “Yeah, sure,” he said, too sarcastically. He really wasn’t a good liar. “Good lord, just trying to get a- to say hello, and ya go full ninja on me… got some venison for dinner, ya hungry?”

Walking up behind his hunter, Paul wrapped his arms around him innocently enough. Daryl’s neck and shoulders always got him hot so he kissed them a few times, just pecks, before slowly sliding one hand down Daryl’s abs to find his erection, full and stiff in his jeans. Daryl gasped but didn’t try to escape this time. “C’mon, what was it? You like that I can kick your ass?”

“Shut up,” Daryl replied breathlessly as Paul stroked through denim. “Ya got the drop on me cause I was trying to- cause I wasn’t trying to fight, asshole. Ya know who’d win in a fair fight.”

“Yeah, I do,” Paul agreed, trailing his fingers lightly against the firm ridge in Daryl’s jeans. Then he shoved Daryl so he was facing the wall, and Daryl’s hands came up instinctively to stop himself from crashing into it.

Daryl wasn’t resisting, though, didn’t say a word, and Paul’s breath started to come in a little faster. He ran his hand over Daryl’s dick again, cupping and stroking, and Daryl just jerked forward with a hiss.

“I think maybe you like being held down,” Paul whispered as he undid the other man’s jeans and worked his hand inside.

Stubbornly silent, Daryl turned and glared over his shoulder, making Paul grin widely. He continued stroking, gently, not giving Daryl anything near the kind of friction he liked. Even so, Daryl was already starting to leak precome–he _really_ liked something about this, even if he was too embarrassed to say so.

Paul used his other arm across Daryl’s shoulders to push him more firmly into the wall, then shuffled his own body closer. He caught a soft little grunt as Daryl let his chest hit the wall and turned his head to one side, hips bucking again.

It really didn’t take long after that. Paul tightened his grip while Daryl tried and failed to keep himself still. Then he apparently gave up on staying still and instead tried to just keep himself quiet. He failed at that, too, and Paul was feeling _very_ smug by the time Daryl was writhing and coming messily into his jeans.

Daryl whirled around and grabbed him, pulling him into a sloppy kiss and pawing at his waist. “Let me shower,” Paul said, pushing him away gently.

“Man, I need the shower,” Daryl grumbled, blush returning as he looked down at his ruined jeans. “These were clean, asshole.”

Daryl had put on clean clothes just for him.

It was tempting to tease him a little but Paul refrained, sensing some real embarrassment behind the gruff joke. “Well, come on, then,” he said instead, turning away. “And by the way, now I’m going to expect this kind of greeting every time I come home from a run. Sexiest thing ever.”

“Pfft.”

“I mean it! You’re my new favorite welcome home. Best boyfriend ever, surprising me at the door.”

“Christ, how’d I end up with such a sap?” Daryl said, fooling no one as he twined their fingers together and tugged Paul towards the shower, jeans still undone and hanging low on his hips.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please put your penis away.” (prompted by rachelreedus01)

“Please put your penis away, I’m trying to think and it’s awfully distracting,” Jesus said, head hanging upside-down over the side of his bed and legs resting against the wall, feet crossed.

Startled, Daryl yanked his towel back into place.

“Didn’t hear ya come in,” he answered, clutching the towel and keeping his back to the wall. He’d just finished washing off in the trailer’s tiny bathroom; the trailer had been empty when he went in. Guy moved around like a damn ghost, and Daryl suddenly understood a littler better why his own silent steps often unnerved his family.

Jesus’s hair was loose and almost touching the floor. His face was red, but that could have been gravity. “I figured,” was all he said in return.

Wrong-footed, Daryl grabbed his clothes and scurried back into the bathroom, wondering what exactly Jesus had meant by _awfully distracting_.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.” (Prompted by anon.)

 

Alexandria, Hilltop, and the Kingdom were ending the war, crashing into the Sanctuary with the rage and vengeance of ancient gods, but Daryl knew it might already be too late for Paul Rovia.

The man had tried to sneak into the Sanctuary when Alex, his ex-boyfriend, was taken, and neither man had ever returned. That was weeks ago.

Daryl had spotted Alex’s reanimated corpse on the fence on their way in and had dispatched it quickly with a bolt. He hadn’t seen Paul’s distinctive hair or oversized eyes anywhere, but then he hadn’t had time to check carefully.

The cell might be empty.

Still, once the real fight was over and Rick and the rest were clearing the Sanctuary floor by floor with the help of all those poor bastards who had been working for points, Daryl moved quickly to his old prison. It wasn’t hard to find, even though he’d never had a clear conception of the maze of hallways, because once he got to the right floor a familiar song was blaring, echoing down the cement halls.

It was surreal to feel such sweeping relief at hearing those fucking asinine lyrics again.

Daryl followed Easy Street until he found the right place.

Reigning in the temptation to kick the stereo into the wall or smash it under his boots, he instead simply flipped the thing off and unbolted the door.

“Paul,” he called, but he didn’t get a response. He pushed the door open quickly and felt goosebumps rise at the familiar smells and the chilly half-darkness of the room.

Hilltop’s little saint was crumpled into himself in a corner, hair hanging in his face, skeletally thin frame awash in gray sweatpants with a large orange H sprayed on the front. Daryl was surprised at first to see heavy shackles on his wrists and ankles, but he realized quickly: of course Paul would have been a handful and a half to keep imprisoned. They’d need more than a cell to keep him from escaping.

Paul looked up at him then, his face a mess of cuts and bruises. “Daryl,” he said, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again, “I guess this means it’s my turn?”

“What?” Daryl said distractedly, reaching in to examine the man. He was more than half-starved and had obviously had the shit beaten out of him on a regular basis–the bruises ranged from fading to fresh–but otherwise he seemed ok. He didn’t flinch from Daryl’s touch, which was a good sign.

“My turn,” Paul said, “to be whisked away on a motorcycle by a sexy, mysterious stranger.”

Daryl stared at him in disbelief. The prick was trying to flirt _now_?

But looking closer, he saw the tears forming, the trembling lips. Paul was barely holding it together.

“Yeah, it’s your turn,” Daryl replied softly, hands moving to the shackles. “Figured I owe you a ride.” He pulled one of Paul’s own lock picks from his pocket and started working on getting him free.

“Alex is dead,” Paul told him. His voice was trembling. Daryl pulled the shackles from his wrists and went for the ones on his ankles.

“I know. They had him out on the fence. I… I finished it.”

“Thank you.”

Then Paul’s shoulders were shaking and he was sobbing openly.

“Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.” But Paul didn’t calm down. He was sobbing so hard it sounded like he was choking on his tears.

Not sure what else to do, Daryl quit trying to free him for the moment and tugged the man into a hug, letting him cry into his shoulder until the grief subsided.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you can’t sleep…we could have sex?” (prompted by anon)

 

Daryl isn’t sure why Paul can’t sleep, but he’d known from the time he saw that their room at the Kingdom only had one bed that he wasn’t falling asleep anytime soon.

They’ve been tossing and turning for about half an hour when Paul flicks on the bedside light and says out of the blue, “If you can’t sleep…we could have sex?”

Daryl goes full deer-in-the-headlights. He can’t help it. Paul just says it so flippantly, as though he sleeps with everyone he accompanies on supply runs. And hell, maybe he does.

Thing is, Daryl’s never done it. He’s made out with floozies at bars, even gotten to first base on the wrong field, but he never tried to actually fuck any of those women--it was just an act, a survival strategy. Merle made his own assumptions when Daryl would give the girls a lift home, and usually the girls seemed more relieved than anything when he pretended he had whisky dick or work in the morning or a girlfriend in Decatur County or whatever other excuse he threw out if they invited him in.

So when Paul offers so casually, Daryl knows he’s out of his depth.

He should say no. He should punch the guy, then say no.

Only... Paul Rovia makes his mouth water.

“What, uh, what exactly would you wanna do?” Daryl asks finally.

Paul perks up. “Whatever. Just... I just want to get off, you know? Burn through that adrenaline.” He laughs like he's nervous, too, and that makes Daryl feel instantly calmer. “Er, handjobs, maybe?”

Daryl’s pretty sure he can manage that. Couldn’t be too different from jacking off, and he probably deserves a goddamn lifetime achievement award in that category. “Yeah, ok.” Paul’s eyebrows raise sharply. “What? You’re the one offering.” Daryl leans away, suspicious now that he's just being mocked after all.

Paul rushes in to reassure him. “Nothing! I just... I didn’t expect that line to actually work, but I’m really jazzed it did.” Daryl rolls his eyes and Paul grins at him in the dim light. “Come on, then. Show me what you’ve got, Dixon.”

Scooting closer, Daryl starts reaching for Paul’s belt, only to pause a second later. “D’you wanna, like, kiss and stuff? Or just...”

Paul’s eyes soften even as he smirks. “Oh, definitely. I definitely want to kiss and stuff.”

Daryl rubs the back of his neck. “Ain’t done this in forever,” he says, thinking about how he really isn’t lying.

“That’s ok.”

“Might suck at it.”

“Nah, let’s save oral for next time.”

Daryl flushes and Paul finally takes the initiative, closing the gap between their mouths.

This much Daryl knows how to do, though he suspects Paul is better at it. Still, at least he knows some basics like not letting the kiss get too wet and not trying to choke the man with his tongue. He keeps the kiss light and doesn’t linger long, reaching for Paul’s belt after just a couple of minutes. Daryl doesn’t let himself hesitate before pulling Paul’s dick out. He spits in his hand and starts, propped on one elbow to watch.

Paul doesn’t make a move to touch him back, just lays back to enjoy it. Mesmerized, Daryl tries to keep his rhythm even and to twist his wrist and move his thumb the way he likes. It’s clumsy from this angle, and he has to move around to adjust his grip a couple of times. Still, he can’t be doing too badly--Paul’s hips start to twitch after awhile and his breath gets uneven. A couple of times Daryl glances at his face, and Paul’s watching him every time, usually staring back into his eyes but sometimes watching his hand rise and fall.

Eventually Paul wraps his own hand around Daryl’s and tightens their grip, thrusting twice before moaning “Shit shit shit Daryl” like it’s all one word and turning his hips to spill over the comforter.

They lay there for a moment, panting, and Daryl really doesn’t want to be rude but he’s going to die if Paul doesn’t get a hand on him right that fucking second. He opens his jeans and pulls out his rock-hard dick, hoping that will be enough of a hint.

Paul turns and grins at him, all teeth, and reaches over. He strokes a few times before raising himself up slightly and whispering, “I changed my mind about waiting, I think I want you in my mouth after all.”

Daryl can’t help it; he glances at Paul’s full mouth and comes just at the thought of fucking it, spilling over his shirt.

Too blissed out to be embarrassed, he practically melts into the bed afterwards. Paul laughs at him and uses his bandana to wipe him off as best he can.

Then, as he dabs at the comforter, Paul says, “We’re definitely doing that again sometime."

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replies, sounding happy. “In fact, I think we’re going to be doing that a lot.”

“Good, I’m in,” Daryl mumbles, and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head canon for my own fic: Paul 100% realizes Daryl is a virgin at some point during the handjob.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me you need me.” (Prompted by darylsfirecracker.)

 

Paul probably thought Daryl had an oral fixation, but that wasn’t it. Or at least, that wasn’t all of it.

“You’re gorgeous, oh shit, please..."

No, the main reason Daryl loved getting on his knees for Paul was entirely unrelated to his own mouth--Paul’s mouth was the issue. More specifically, the way he lost all control of it while Daryl was sucking him. He wasn’t vocal during any other kind of sex, really, but something about Daryl blowing him made him lose his damn mind.

“Your fingers, ohgodohgodohgod, please Daryl, you’re so fucking sexy, please don’t stop.”

While Paul talked all the damn time, the chatterbox, he still struggled with saying the important stuff. Not that Daryl was much better at it, but Rick had told him that communication was essential to making a relationship last and he’d taken that to heart. So Daryl made himself say the important shit. He told Paul when he was angry, and why; he told Paul when he was in love, and why.

“God, I love you. Fucking- fucking hell, I love you, Daryl, keep going, keep- keep-”

Paul could be affectionate but he often hid behind a screen of irony. Giving a direct compliment, saying 'I love you' without a teasing tone or an overly sappy nickname attached--those things were difficult for him.

“You’re- shit, you’re perfect. I want you to fuck me. I’m ready, I’m- I want you to- I want... Daryl!”

The difficulty fell away while Daryl was sucking his dick, though. Humming and working Paul open with his fingers, Daryl basked in the praise. _Come on_ , he thought, hollowing his cheeks and looking up adoringly. _Come on, Paul, say it. Tell me you need me._

“Daryl. Daryl, fuck me. Please. I need it- I need you to-”

 _Close enough_ , Daryl decided, standing up. Paul was nearly swooning so Daryl lifted him, and trembling legs moved to wrap instinctively around his waist. Then Daryl slammed his boyfriend against the wall, entering him quickly, knowing neither of them would last long. Even so he moved roughly, unable to help himself.

It was all just moans, gasps, and strangled curses after that. Paul came between them with a shout and the feel of it set Daryl off, face buried in his lover’s sweaty neck.

Twenty minutes later, falling asleep in bed, Paul said drowsily, “I love you, you know. More than anything.”

Daryl gathered him in closer. “Yeah. Love you, too.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How drunk was I?” and “Stop being so cute.” (Prompted by aneablack1102 <3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1/3

 

“So how drunk was I?” Daryl asked Rick over breakfast, wincing in the sunlight as he dropped onto the bench next to his brother. At Hilltop they ate in the courtyard most of the year, and Daryl couldn’t remember the last time he was so unhappy to be outdoors.

“Looks like you already have an inkling,” Rick said, handing over the rest of his mug of tea.

“Man, I used to be able to hold my liquor. Drink a twelve pack and go out hunting the next day,” Daryl grumbled, taking the tea and chugging it. “Getting fucking old.”

“Uh huh. Guess that drinking game got the best of you.”

Grunting, Daryl started eating his oatmeal, wishing it didn’t have raisins in it.

“Look, Daryl, I’m not sure how much you remember, but-”

Just then Jesus came out the side door of Barrington House, glanced briefly in Daryl’s direction, and immediately spun around and went back inside, distinctly red around the ears.

Frowning, Daryl turned to Rick and found him looking after Jesus with a pitying expression on his face.

“What’s that about?” Daryl asked, dread rising in his gut.

“You’re not the only one who can’t hold his liquor,” Rick said. “Look... I’ll tell you, but promise you’ll go easy on him, alright?”

\--

_“Just... god, Daryl, stop it already.”_

_“Stop what?” Daryl replied, tilting his head and squinting._

_Jesus had taught him how to play a drinking game called Quarters. They both turned out to be quite good at bouncing the old coins into the glass between them, which meant they’d both taken a lot of shots in the last couple of hours._

_“Stop being so cute,” Jesus said, loudly enough that they gained an audience--most of Daryl’s family was at the table behind the scout. Like a bunch of puppets on a single string, their heads jerked up at Jesus’s words and then jerked away again when they realized Daryl had noticed them._

_"What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Daryl asked Jesus, glaring a little at Enid because she was giggling._

_“It means... quit being so damn cute all the time!”_

_Daryl still didn’t understand, and he was starting to feel vaguely attacked. Enid was giggling harder but the rest of his family was eyeing Daryl cautiously, no longer even pretending not to eavesdrop. Aaron rose from his seat first, then Maggie just after. Her hand landed firmly on Jesus’s shoulder. “Alright, Paul, let’s get you to bed-”_

_“I’m just saying, it’s kind of an asshole move, being that cute_ and _that straight. Pick one,” Jesus continued, scowling blearily at Daryl. "You don’t get to be both. It’s rude.”_

_“I ain’t,” Daryl replied, but Rick and Carl appeared out of nowhere and began tugging him towards the RV as Maggie and Aaron led Jesus into the house. “Hey, I ain’t, ya prick! I ain’t!”_

\--

"Y'all thought I’d be pissed at him for running his mouth?” Avoiding Rick’s gaze, Daryl pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “It’s all he does.”

“Well you sure seemed unhappy last night, hollering like a stuck pig about how you ain’t cute.” Rick leaned in, trying to make eye contact almost as soon as Daryl started avoiding it. Sometimes Daryl hated having a former cop for a best friend. “Wait a second, are you...” Ice blue eyes narrowed suspiciously, then widened. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Shrugging, Daryl looked at his empty oatmeal bowl. Took a deep drag of his cigarette. Tried not to vomit.

Apparently that was all Rick needed. Punching his shoulder hard, Rick hissed, “You close-mouthed son of a bitch. Your drunk ass was yelling about not being straight.” A slow grin spread over his face. “Guess you _are_ pretty cute.”

“Pfft, go fuck yourself. I was yelling that- hell, shut up- until you dragged me off, I was trying to say that I ain’t neither one.” Daryl finally met Rick’s eyes with a small smirk, his heart lighter as he took another drag. “Some fucking wingman you are, by the way.”

Rick reached over and snagged the cigarette from his mouth.

“Hey, what the hell?”

“Wingman, right? Can’t have you chasing after him smelling like an ashtray.” Rick laughed as Daryl glared, watching the cigarette disappear under Rick’s boot. “Go on. Go put him out of his misery.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two is the next chapter, Part Three doesn't come until chapter 34.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka.” (Prompted by waytoooldforshipping.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/3

 

"Do you think he’ll remember?” Paul asked miserably, face down on the bed with bare arms folded over his head and his mouth halfway mashed into the pillow. He’d crashed in Maggie’s room the night before, apparently too far gone to even insist on taking the couch. Someone had stripped him to his boxers and undershirt before putting him to bed--hopefully not Maggie, but Paul wasn’t about to ask too many questions on that front. He had enough to be embarrassed about as it was.

Maggie gave him a sympathetic smile from where she was curled up on the couch. “He won’t remember, he was just as drunk.” She didn’t let Paul enjoy his relief for long. “He’ll find out, though. We were all there--me, Enid, Aaron, Tara, Rick, and Carl. Kal, Eduardo, and Rosita were nearby, too. He’s gonna hear it from somebody.”

Moaning, Paul pulled the covers over his head.

“Oh, grow up,” she teased gently. “It’s wasn’t that bad.”

“You said I told him he had to choose between being cute and being heterosexual.”

“Alright, so it was pretty bad,” Maggie replied. “But you’re both adults. Maybe a couple years ago I’d have been worried, but Daryl’s not- you don’t have to worry about-”

“No, I know he’s not going to be angry with me, try to kick my ass or something. Just, we were finally becoming friends, you know? That was more than enough, and... fuck, he’s going to feel so awkward around me now.”

She didn’t try to deny it. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

Paul huffed a breath and forced himself to make light of it all. “God, can you even imagine Daryl’s version of _letting me down easy_? I can’t be sober for that, Maggie. Is Gregory’s stash still in the cupboard?”

“Paul Rovia, it’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka. Besides, alcohol is what got you into this mess in the first place.”

\--

Paul knew he probably couldn’t hide from Daryl forever, but he was willing to test the theory--at least until he was less hungover, anyway.

He’d only seen the other man briefly, sitting out in the sunshine with Rick at breakfast, and Rick’s compassionate glance his way told Paul everything he needed to know. The last lingering hope that somehow maybe Daryl wouldn’t be weird about last night died in his chest.

So Paul stayed indoors. He washed up, snuck some food from the kitchen, bribed Bertie to go swipe him some painkillers from the medical trailer, then grabbed a book and headed for his favorite spot, the lookout point at the top of the house.

Daryl was there waiting for him, sitting with his knees drawn close to his chest and a mug of tea beside him. He handed it over silently as Paul approached, and the scout quirked a smile at the kind gesture.

“Figured you’d come here eventually. How ya feeling?”

“Embarrassed,” Paul said, sitting beside him and sipping the tea. It was cool, so Daryl had been waiting for him for awhile. “You?”

“I’m alright.” Daryl cleared his throat. “I’m gonna get right to the point, ‘kay?”

“Daryl, listen. We don’t have to talk about this. I was drunk, I’m sorry I-”

“If you can keep your trap shut for half of a goddamn minute,” Daryl interrupted impatiently, “I’m trying to say that I ain’t straight, and if either of us is fucking _cute_ , it’s you, and... uh...” He trailed off awkwardly.

Paul just stared, utterly lost for words for once.

The silence stretched between them, Paul gaping and Daryl turning redder and redder. Finally Daryl said in a near whisper, "Look, if you didn’t mean it, if you were just drunk and mouthing off, then-”

“Well of course I didn’t mean it,” Paul said quickly, regaining his footing. His heart was pounding. All he could focus on was Daryl’s rough hands curled around his knees.

Daryl blanched. “Oh.”

Grinning, Paul added, “I’d never want you to stop being this cute. That was the vodka talking.”

Head dropping forward, Daryl was quiet for another moment before replying with obvious relief, “You are _such_ a dick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is continued a tiny bit in chapter 34... sorry for the confusing order >__<


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But pookie..." (Prompted by anon.)

Carol was glad, for once, to be on guard duty, because otherwise someone might have shot Daryl as he crashed through the underbrush on his way to the gate. The man threw himself towards The Kingdom like a Georgia thunderstorm.

“What’s wrong?” she asked once Nabila let him in.

“Nothing. Everyone’s fine.” He shrugged her off quickly, barely submitting to the usual forehead kiss. “Just… thinking I might stay here awhile, if your man gives the ok.”

He hadn’t mentioned a word about moving when she’d been at Hilltop the previous week. “But pookie…"

“Did I miss lunch?” Daryl interrupted gruffly, readjusting his bag on his shoulder. “Forgot to pack food for the road and I left before breakfast. I’m fucking starving.”

Carol watched him walk towards the kitchens. He must have left Hilltop in a hurry.

She wondered how badly she was going to have to hurt Paul Rovia.

—

_In Paul’s view, things had been going great._

_Ever since Alex started dating Wes, Paul had been grumpy. Sarcastic. Irritable._

_Sexually frustrated, not to put too fine a point on it. And maybe a little lonely._

_But Daryl… what he had with Daryl was even better than his on-again, off-again drama with Alex._

_That truth was hard for Paul to parse. He was friends with Alex; he was friends with Daryl. He liked spending time with both of them. And Daryl was inexperienced, shy, not_ skilled _like Alex—yet Paul enjoyed being with him so much more. They clicked._

_Then, after their fifth or so time getting each other off, Daryl had gone and ruined it._

—

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“Whaddaya mean?” Daryl replied, mouth half-full of chicken. He sucked the juice off his fingers, probably trying to annoy her into leaving him alone.

Carol barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “I thought you and Jesus-”

“Nah.”

“Pookie…” she said hesitantly, a little thrown by how sharply he shut her down. “It was pretty obvious.”

Daryl snorted. “You mean I was obvious,” he said, not pausing in eating his chicken. Not meeting her eyes.

Cocking her head, Carol stayed quiet. Sometimes Daryl would keep talking if you gave him time.

It worked, sort of. “Weren’t nothing serious,” Daryl said eventually.

To anyone who didn’t know him like Carol did, he would have sounded perfectly collected and detached.

Carol knew she couldn’t actually _kill_ Paul, but she still wondered idly how upset Zeke would be if she took Shiva on a trip to Hilltop.

–

_They were laying in bed, holding hands, and Paul had just given Daryl his first ever blowjob. Daryl had been a complete mess, looking and sounding like it was a religious experience as he shook and shouted. Minutes later, he was still having trouble forming words._

_Paul couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this happy._

_“You’re… this is…” Daryl paused, clearly frustrated. “I want- I wanna do this again. Keep doing this, I mean.”_

_“Me, too.”_

_Daryl frowned at him. "I mean on purpose, though. I wanna… wanna go out with you.” He said the last words quickly, under his breath, but Paul still heard it._

_His heart started pounding unpleasantly, his hand in Daryl’s feeling sweaty and heavy._

_He liked Daryl. Of course he did. But it hadn’t even been two weeks. That was fast, right? Dating—whatever that meant in this world—“going out” after a few handjobs… that was objectively fast. He and Alex had fucked for months without having this talk._

_So Paul went with his knee-jerk reaction: to laugh it off. "Go out where? Not a lot of places to go dancing anymore. Can’t really grab dinner and a movie.”_

_Daryl just blinked, confused hurt blooming on his face between breaths. Then he nodded, stoic again. “Yeah. Guess not.”_

_After a long, silent pause, the archer stood and pulled on his clothes._

_Paul tried not to envision him as a kicked puppy, but the way Daryl slunk out of the trailer was hard to ignore._

—

Back on gate duty after her lunch break, Carol glared when Paul Rovia stepped out of brush, disheveled and breathless. She held up her rifle even as the other guard called out a greeting.

“Is he here?” Jesus asked, just the right side of desperate.

Lowering her rifle slowly, still glaring, Carol motioned for Nabila to let him in.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several people asked for a continuation to the last ficlet, soooo here it is.

Daryl was sitting against an outside wall sharpening a dagger when Paul rounded the corner of the gymnasium; they saw each other at the same moment. There was exhaustion on Daryl’s face, and more than a little surprise, but he seemed unharmed.

Paul had expected anger, at least--that was pretty typical for Daryl. But even as he walked closer, the other man showed no signs of his usual flaring temper.

“Everything ok?” Daryl asked, because that was always the first question when someone arrived unexpectedly from another community.

“That’s what I’m here to ask you.”

It got more of a response than Paul’s arrival had. Suddenly Daryl was radiating discomfort.

“M’fine. Done told Maggie, Carol asked me awhile ago to train some kids to track. Figured I’d stay here a few weeks, see what I can do.”

Paul hadn’t asked Maggie. When he’d seen Daryl’s room emptied of all the archer’s scant personal belongings, he’d simply walked out the gate and gambled that the man was heading for Carol rather than Rick. He figured it was near 50/50 odds, and the Kingdom was a shorter walk.

Frowning, wondering if Daryl seriously thought that excuse would pass muster, Paul slid down to sit beside him against the wall. “You didn’t say anything last night.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Daryl started gnawing on his finger, looking straight ahead. “Shoulda said goodbye. We’re... we’re friends.”

God, he sounded so hesitant. Paul winced, gut churning. “Daryl...”

“If you leave now, you’ll get back to Hilltop before it’s too dark.” Suddenly Daryl was standing, moving towards the main buildings. “I’ll be back in a few weeks, man. You take care of Maggie for me.”

Stunned, Paul tried to think of some kind of response. Daryl stopped after a few yards and, without turning around, added, “I know I’m new at this and all, but... maybe tell the next guy up front, if you’re just scratching an itch.”

And then he walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hurt me.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s the matter, sweetie?” (Prompted by anon.)
> 
> Last part of this little series.

 

 

 

An hour later Jesus was still outside, still sitting against that fence where Daryl had left him. Carol had kept an eye on him from the window as she helped out with the lunch dishes, watched as he picked at the grass around him and occasionally banged his head backwards against the wall.

Now she was dishing out a plate of leftover shepherd’s pie, prepared to fake her very sweetest, most maternal smile.

She barely made it out of the cafeteria.

“That poisoned?” Daryl asked, sitting in the darkened stairwell between the cafeteria and the outside exit and gesturing at the food with his cigarette. 

“Should it be?” Smoking indoors was against Zeke’s rules, but she didn’t call him on it.

Stomping the end of his cigarette under his boot, Daryl gave her a halfhearted glare.

Carol sat next to him, offering him the plate instead. She knew he hadn’t eaten, either, but he ignored her, so she set it down on the step above them and got straight to the point. “What’s the matter, sweetie? What happened? Last week you two were inseparable.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Daryl said tiredly, under his breath. Then, relenting a little, he said, “Look, don’t go giving Paul any shit about this, alright? _I’m_ the one who got it wrong-”

“You didn’t, though,” a quiet voice interrupted. Startled, Carol had to stop herself from reaching for her knife as Jesus rounded the corner, still looking strange without his usual twinkling eyes and ready smirk.

Jesus spoke to Carol next. “Would you mind giving us a moment?”

“Of course,” she replied graciously, for Daryl’s benefit. Then she sent Jesus a stare that could cut glass as she went back into the cafeteria.

\--

Paul took Carol’s spot on the stairs, which immediately caused Daryl to tense up. The man tried to hide it by lighting a cigarette. The smoke from the previous one still lingered in the air.

“Daryl, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t gotta apologize.”

“I do, though.” Paul sighed, trying to find the words. “I bet you’ve never been a coward in your life, have you? I can’t imagine it, anyway, if you have.”

“Pfft.” Daryl gave him an ambiguous look.

“Because that’s what I've been, a coward.”

“Nah.”

But Daryl didn’t elaborate, the monosyllabic son of a bitch, so Paul sucked in a breath and went on. “You weren’t wrong about what, um, what’s happening between us. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt like this about a guy. Definitely not since the world ended.” Daryl merely grunted and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. Scratching his forehead, Paul continued, "It scares me shitless, if I’m being honest. But that’s- you’re too important, you’re... fuck it, what I’m trying to say is, if you still want to--if you can forgive me for being a jackass--I'd like to take you on a date tomorrow night, back at Hilltop. You don’t seem like the dancing type, but I can manage dinner and a movie.”

They sat in silence for several agonizing minutes, Paul feeling sweaty and anxious as smoke continued to fill the air around them.

Finally Daryl stuttered out, “You shouldn’t, you don’t have to... look, I weren’t lying about teaching the kids here to scout. I’ll be back at Hilltop in a few weeks, so you can... you can think on it. When I get back, if by then you're... if you still want...” He trailed off awkwardly and took a deep drag of his cigarette.

“I’ll still want to.”

Daryl snorted. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, man. Think about it.”

“Daryl. I’ll still want too,” Paul repeated confidently. His hand was cautious as it reached for Daryl’s.

The redneck rolled his eyes and stood before Paul could take his hand, but Paul saw his lip quirk around his cigarette in a tiny smile. He gestured at the plate of food on the steps. “Eat that and get the fuck out of here, Rovia. You can still make the outpost before dusk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite people requested a happy ending... this is as close as I could get without it feeling super-fake to me.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!” and “I lost our baby.” (Prompted by anon.)

 

“I lost our baby. I lost her,” the tall, willowy woman was sobbing and screaming at her husband, who had been passed out in the bed they shared while she stole away to the clinic. “I lost her because of you and your goddamned moonshine. Now get the hell out.”

That was how Daryl found out he wasn’t going to be a big brother anymore.

Daryl’d never heard his mother sound so fierce. She was still bruised and battered from the night before yet she seemed fearless, swinging a full bottle of wine at her husband’s head with a lit cigarette in her other hand.

She hadn’t been drinking or smoking since the pregnancy test. Daryl supposed it didn’t matter anymore; at least she’d be happy to be able to smoke again. She’d complained constantly about quitting.

Since he heard the first screech of “Wake up, you bastard!” Daryl had hovered in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom, waiting to see if he would need to intervene, give his father a different target.

Will Dixon wasn’t moving to shut his wife up, though. He was backing slowly towards the door instead, dodging the bottle. “Tammy... Tam, I’m-"

But his wife started kicking viciously at him, moaning “Get out, get out...” as she cried.

“You can’t just... Fuck, woman, you can’t banish me! This is my bed, too!” Will spluttered, sounding weak and confused. “Tammy… shit. Listen, I’m- I never meant to-”

But he’d crossed the threshold of the door, almost stumbling over Daryl. The door snapped shut in both their faces, the lock clicking immediately after.

To Daryl’s amazement, his daddy didn’t turn on him next, or begin pounding the door down. Instead he walked right past him to the living room with just a vague, “You go play outside, boy.”

\--

The neighbor kids didn’t like Daryl, not really, but they’d let him stand at the finish line to judge who won their bike races sometimes.

Usually they were assholes about his family in particular, so the sympathy on their faces as they stood back behind the bright yellow tape was jarring. It stuck in Daryl’s mind long after the fireman’s words faded.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a Texas thing.” (Prompted by fuckyeahhansonfamily.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a Texan originally, soooo this is a little self-indulgent. Sorry ;)
> 
> Also, I love the times when Daryl shares unexpected bits of knowledge <3

“Just saying, if we retreat back to Hilltop afterwards, we’re asking for a ‘Remember the Alamo’ situation,” Daryl said, leaning over the map and missing the mystified look Jesus shot Maggie over his head. “The Kingdom makes more sense, even if it’s a longer haul.”

“Sorry, but... Remember the Alamo?” Rick asked, frowning, and Jesus was glad he wasn’t the only one struggling to remember where he’d heard the phrase before.

“They’ve got the numbers for it,” Daryl replied impatiently, pointing at the map. “So we should-”

“No, Daryl, I’m asking what the hell a ‘Remember the Alamo’ situation _is_.”

The archer stared at Rick in disbelief, then looked around the room at the others gathered around. Jesus smiled a little at his incredulous expression as Ezekiel, Carol, and the others all shook their heads. When his eyes landed on Maggie, she shrugged. “It’s a Texas thing, right?”

“Are you kidding me? The Texas Revolution? Davy Crockett?” No one said anything and Daryl continued, sounding offended, “Come on! 200 badass Texans holding the Alamo for two weeks with Santa Anna and 6,000 Mexican soldiers outside?"

Rick scratched his head. “I think maybe I remember from high school...”

“What happened to them?” Jesus asked. He'd seen flashes of Daryl’s keen intelligence before, but he definitely hadn’t expected a history lesson from the surly redneck. It was... kind of hot, actually.

“What do you think? 200 against 6,000. They were surrounded, besieged, and butchered. Same as us, if we hole up at Hilltop after the raid.”

Daryl still sounded hostile, but everyone in the room was used to it. Jesus even saw Maggie raise her eyebrows at Rick with an amused smirk. “Ok, you’re saying the Kingdom would be harder for them to surround, so we’re less likely to get trapped inside the walls?”

“Yeah,” Daryl huffed, turning back to the map. “Read a book sometime, people. Good lord.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon is in the chapter notes at the end, just thought the fic worked better that way <3

Paul sits sprawled at the kitchen table in his trailer, a bottle of vodka in front of him, thinking of the person he used to be and would never be again.

His knuckles hurt. His head hurts. He’d been crying earlier and isn’t sure when he stopped.

Random flashes of memory, like flying a kite in a park with his sister and doing homework in his college dorm room, are interspersed with stabbing reminders that he’s changed in ways he can’t fathom. He remembers starting martial arts as a small child, because he father loved karate and judo and hoped he would, too. They’d had a long talk on the way to the YMCA about how fighting shouldn’t be used for bullying; how karate was about tradition, and self-respect, and keeping his body in peak physical condition.

He remembers how training became more than a hobby--almost an obsession--when his parents died and he was stuck in the state’s care. On rare occasions he’d had to use his skills to defend himself, but even then he was careful not to cause more damage than absolutely necessary. His father had been a peaceful man, and so was Paul.

Then the world had ended, and either inch by inch or all at once in the last few hours, Paul had become the type of person who would beat the hell out of a defenseless old man tied to a chair.

Paul isn’t sure he even regrets it.

He thinks about Daryl and tears up again, panic and vodka causing his head to spin.

\--

_Daryl was alone, leaning against the wall drinking from a fancy china teacup, when Paul came into the library._

_The scout couldn’t help his soft smile at the sight of the other man. Everything was still new between them; everything Daryl did seemed irrationally appealing. It felt like a teenage crush._

_It was, in short, horribly embarrassing. Paul was happier than he’d been in a long time._

_“You stole some of Gregory’s liquor again, didn’t you?”  
_

_"Nah. Asshole was drinking tea for once.” Daryl slurped down the rest, tilting the cup, exposing the long line of his neck to Paul’s wandering eyes. “When’s Maggie coming?”  
_

_“She’s on her way, just stopped to pee. The baby’s sitting on her bladder and she feels the need to tell everyone about it.”_

_Daryl snorted._

_Looking back out the doorway, Paul said with a frown, “I thought Gregory would already be here.” He and Daryl were just crashing the meeting to back up Maggie’s plan for scouting closer to D.C. Paul had a lot of other shit to get done before dusk.  
_

_“Haven’t seen him.” Daryl was frowning, too.  
_

_“I’ll go find him. Probably sneaking extra food from the kitchen again.”  
_

_“Hold up.” Daryl’s face twisted as Paul looked back at him over his shoulder. “I feel... think I’m...”  
_

_And then he started convulsing violently, falling to the floor._

\--

“You don’t want to be there when he wakes up?”

Maggie walks into the trailer uninvited, and Paul doesn’t want her to even look at him.

“Maggie, I- look, I really need to be alone right now.”

She ignores him, sits right across from him instead. Despite the lack of actual shared DNA, there are certain traits that seem to run in Daryl’s family, stubbornness chief among them.

“He’s going to be just fine. Dr. Carson got him some activated charcoal, he’ll just need to rest for a few days.”

Paul stays silent, letting his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling some more. He’d already known Daryl would be fine; he’d asked Alex before fleeing to the trailer.

“He’ll want to see you.”

Slightly startled, Paul blinks at her, because that sounds an awful lot like...

“Oh, am I still supposed to be pretending I don’t know about you two? Because I could have lost my brother today and I really don’t have the energy for tiptoeing around his boyfriend.”

Paul huffs and turns back to the ceiling.

“Is that why you’re hiding in here? Because if so-” She sounds ready to give him a piece of her mind.

“I beat the shit out of Gregory,” he interrupts blandly, still staring at the ceiling.

Maggie flinches.

\--

_The next hour was a blur._

_Paul remembered screaming, and then Maggie was beside him, supporting Daryl’s head and frantically asking what had happened. But Paul didn’t know, he didn’t understand, his mind snapping wildly to seizures he’d seen on television a lifetime ago._

_Then Gregory scurried in. “How did- no, he wasn’t supposed to-”_

_The old fool shut up then, but it was enough. Paul knew Gregory. It all came together, Gregory’s cowardice and his appointment with Maggie and Daryl’s tendency to annoy the old man by stealing his high-quality liquor._

_“Ipecac,” Paul bit out harshly, already standing to get the first-aid kit Alex had stashed in the room. “We need ipecac syrup or something similar, something to make him vomit. That- that disgusting piece of shit poisoned him.”  
_

_Maggie paled, rounding on Gregory. “How- how dare you-”_

_“Maggie, go get Harlan,” Paul said urgently, finding the syrup he wanted in the case. He always had been cleared-headed in a crisis. “We need him. And you,” he added, eyes sparking with rage as he turned to Gregory, “You_ will _tell me what was in that tea.”_

\--

Maggie and Alex had handcuffed Gregory to a chair in his own office. At first he’d denied over and over again that he’d done anything wrong, only to spill the truth minutes after Paul let his rage gather into his fists.

It was yew. The man had sniveled about how Maggie was the real target, how she was going to get them all killed, how Daryl was just an accident--like any of that would help, would save him from Paul’s wrath.

It didn’t. Paul had hit him four or five more times, hard, before finally regaining control of himself and leaving the room.

“Harlan needed to know what the p- what the poison was,” Paul says to Maggie, needing two tries to get out the word. If he hadn’t needed to tell Harlan the type of poison, he’s not sure he’d have left Gregory alive.

Maggie clasps his shoulder. She looks like she has something to say, but stays silent.

Paul still wishes she would go, but he knows she won’t, so he continues, “I’ve done terrible things before. But he was- Gregory was tied to the chair. Defenseless. He’s old, he- he’s- and I didn’t even stop, when he told me what I needed to know. Not right away.”

“He’s a coward who almost murdered your boyfriend,” Maggie says gently.

Paul nods. “I don’t feel guilty. Or maybe I do, I’m not sure. I just- I don’t know what I’m capable of, anymore. If someone hurts Daryl, or you... Enid or Alex... I- I could-” he sucks in a breath, voice starting to waver in a way he hates.

They sit together quietly for awhile. He appreciates that Maggie doesn’t try to tell him he did the right thing. He doesn’t need to hear it--whether it was right or wrong doesn’t matter much anymore. He already knows he’d do it again.

At some point Maggie’s hand moves to his and squeezes, then simply holds.

It takes awhile for Paul to come back to himself. “Harlan’s sure Daryl will be ok?”

“That’s what he said,” Maggie answers, standing. “Come on, honey. Let’s go see your man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not obvious, Maggie thinks about telling Jesus what happened with Randall, but decides it's not her story to tell.
> 
> Hope this isn’t OOC. I think Jesus is 100% bad ass and has done just as much to survive as the rest of them, but I felt like this situation with Gregory–someone he’s worked closely with for a long time at this point–would not be easy on him.
> 
> Prompt: Can we get some angst of Gregory poisoning Daryl (instead of Maggie) and Dare i ask for it to be longish?


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I locked the keys in the car.” (Prompted by anon.)

 

Jesus and Daryl’s first run together was not going well at all in Daryl’s opinion, despite the fact that the small farm was mostly unlooted and only had a few walkers wandering around the barnyard. Aaron had found the place while out scouting and had drawn them a map so they could return with a truck for seeds, tools, and food.

Usually Daryl was good at shit like this: efficient, logical, and deadly when crossed. He’d even stupidly thought maybe he could impress Jesus a little, but no, apparently he turned into a disaster when left alone with the handsome man.

Still, Daryl didn’t get _that_ embarrassed when he realized he’d lost the map. It must have fallen out of his pocket when they stopped to piss. It wasn’t a huge problem–Jesus said he remembered the map well enough to guide them. Yeah, they made a couple of wrong turns, but that was fine. They’d warned the folks at home that the run might become an overnighter.

And Daryl was only a _little_ flustered when he made an ass of himself by tripping over his own feet in the barn and landing in a haystack. Jesus had picked pieces of straw out of his hair with delicate, quick fingers, eyes sparkling and teeth digging into his lip to keep in laughter, the fucker.

Daryl did become a _bit_ more exasperated with himself when he missed an easy shot at a mossy-looking walker lurching towards them from the forest. He flinched when Jesus dropped a box of metal tools into the bed of truck, making his bolt go wide by several yards. Jesus had quirked an eyebrow and asked “Jumpy, Dixon?” in mock concern as Daryl got the dead bastard with a second bolt.

Jogging to retrieve the bolt from a walker’s skull–the other one had flown far off into the forest–Daryl admitted to himself that he _was_ jumpy. Jesus just had that effect on him. The _idea_ of being alone with the man for the day was appealing, but now that he was such a fucking mess, making mistakes at every turn, Daryl wished he’d come by himself. The always-graceful, always-collected Hilltop scout probably thought he was a bumbling moron, he realized dejectedly, returning to the farmhouse basement to continue loading up homemade preserves.

–

Daryl made it the rest of the afternoon without being a goddamn spazz as he and Jesus packed up some clothes and toiletries in the main house.

The locked truck was the straw that broke the camel’s back, though.

“I locked the keys in the car,” Daryl said, nonplussed, staring in disbelief at the keys in the ignition. The two men were ready to settle in for the night, but their packs sat in the middle of the pickup’s bench seat in the cab of the truck. The _locked_ cab. “I never fucking lock doors behind me anymore, what the fuck- why would I have- wait, why is _your_ side locked?”

“Oh, I always lock up. Habit. Never known when some asshole is going to try to steal your hard-earned sorghum.” Jesus grinned, leaning against the door as Daryl stared past him though the window at the keys.

Daryl felt himself blush deeply, eyes falling to the ground. “Yeah,” he said, feeling utterly defeated by the whole goddamn day. “I’ll go get a wire or something.”

–

Jesus sighed a tiny little sigh under his breath. It had been a fun day, and he did love to tease his grumpy companion, but now Daryl looked totally disgusted with himself rather than merely ruffled. Like locking keys in the car was an unforgivable offense or something.

A small wave of guilt settled over him. Damn it, it wasn’t his fault that Daryl was just too fucking cute when he was off kilter and embarrassed.

Jesus chewed the inside of his lip, frowning, fingers fiddling with Aaron’s map in his jacket pocket. As Daryl walked towards him with an unbent wire hanger, Jesus’s eyes flicked from the other man’s red face, to his still-loose bootlace, to the crossbow that was missing a bolt, and finally to the belt loop that had, an hour ago, been firmly clipped to a set of keys.

“You know, I just remembered, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who locked your side of the car when I got that granola bar earlier,” Jesus said, his tone sincerely apologetic. “Sorry, old habits die hard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think Jesus is a bully, just very very mischievous ;)


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s the matter, sweetie?” (Prompted by the wonderful greenerovia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of the story from chapters 25 and 26... wasn't sure how best to include it here since I wrote so many fics in between, sorry!

 

“So what do we do now?” Daryl asked after a few moments of quiet, cross-legged with his back still against the wall.

Paul couldn’t help it; a slow, suggestive grin spread over his face.

Watching him, Daryl rolled his eyes, cheeks flushing bright red. Unabashed, Paul’s grin grew more and more mischievous. He waggled his eyebrows dramatically.

“Stop it,” Daryl said roughly, elbowing him.

The shy tone of voice just made Paul want him more. “What? I didn’t say a word! Just smiling at my new boyfriend.” It was a bold move, but Paul was suddenly feeling pretty damn lucky.

“ _Boyfriend_ , huh?” Despite his scathing tone, there was no mistaking the pleased look on Daryl’s face. He pulled one knee up and leaned an elbow against it.

“Yeah, I think so,” Paul replied, leaning in. Daryl turned away but Paul just followed him, pushing away from the wall and kneeling up, knees touching one of Daryl’s thighs. “What’s the matter, sweetie? Did you want to use ‘lovers’ instead?”

Daryl’s elbow slipped from his knee. He tried to cover for it, quickly stretching both legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankle in fake nonchalance. “Changed my mind. You ain’t  _cute_ , you’re fucking awful.”

“I can be both,” Paul said reasonably. He put a hand on Daryl’s cheek and turned his face until their eyes met. “And anyway, I think _you’re_ the cute one, remember?”

“Christ, why do I even like you?” Daryl glared without any heat, a smile fighting its way to the corner of his mouth.

It was hopelessly endearing. Kissing that smile, Paul straddled his boyfriend’s lap, determined to give Daryl a few brand new reasons to like him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re getting crumbs all over my bed” and “It was a joke, baby. I swear.” (Prompted by anon)

There had been jokes, when Daryl first moved in with Paul. Gentle teasing from Maggie about being prepared for double the laundry, smirking warnings from Rick about squirrel guts all over his kitchen, and some less benevolent jibes from Alex and Wes about ‘dirty rednecks.’ Carol even gave them body wash and a hose as a housewarming gift, in addition to a sack of the Kingdom’s finest pomegranates.

All in all, he’d thought Daryl would be at least a little bit difficult to live with. The people who knew him best certainly seemed to think so.

So Paul is surprised when, after two weeks, he’s can hardly see any signs of Daryl living in the trailer at all.

\--

Paul isn’t a complete neat freak, but he does like cleanliness and order when he can get it. When they decided to take the plunge, he’d installed a rack on the wall for Daryl’s crossbow and cleared out half of his closet. Truthfully, he’d enjoyed doing it--it felt so normal, preparing for his boyfriend to move in with him.

He smiles, thinking about it. The crossbow is on its rack. Daryl had seemed pleased with it, too, when he’d first brought in his things.

Looking around, though, Daryl’s clothes barely take up their own shelf, and he only hangs his vest in the closet. He’d brought a handful of books that are easily lost amongst Paul’s collection. There are two new towels and a toothbrush in the bathroom.

Besides that, there’s a few knives and pair of dog tags Paul knows used to belong to Merle in Daryl’s bedside drawer.

That’s it.

Daryl’s things remain neat and tidy. He folds his clothes each night after stripping to his boxers for bed. Cleans his knives and puts them in the drawer right away after use. He does dishes more often than Paul, scrapes his boots clean on the porch, and showers a reasonable amount for the apocalypse.

Paul figures he should enjoy it while it lasts.

\--

That first night Daryl had laid gingerly on the bed beside Paul, fidgety and awkward, until Paul took it upon himself to make him more comfortable.

He seems more relaxed there now, at least. Paul walks in to find him reading and eating crackers, sprawled out against the headboard. He’s only in socks and his black pants, his slightly soft stomach folded a bit, his broad shoulders bare and tempting.

“You’re getting crumbs all over my bed,” Paul teases, watching him fondly.

Only Daryl’s response isn’t to flip him off or rolls his eyes like he usually would.

“Shit,” he hisses instead, dropping the book without marking his page. He sits up quickly, setting the crackers on the bedside table. “Fuck, sorry, I’ll just-”

And then he’s wiping the comforter frantically with both hands.

 _What the fuck?_ Paul frowns, watching the large scars across his back flex and move as the man tries to clean up nonexistent cracker crumbs.

“Daryl,” he says, and Daryl still doesn’t stop. “Hey! Earth to Daryl!” Finally his boyfriend looks up, eyes like a disobedient puppy waiting for the newspaper. “It was a joke, baby. I swear.”

They don’t usually do pet names, but Daryl’s insecurity is kind of freaking him out.

“Oh,” Daryl says, deflating. He sits heavily on the bed again.

“You alright?” Paul asks cautiously, sitting beside him.

Daryl nods, offering him a cracker.

Taking one but not eating it yet, Paul sighs. “You just seem kind of... on edge, since you moved in. You don’t have to clean so much, you know. I think you’ve washed every dish we’ve used since you got here. And I don’t mind some clutter, or crumbs on the bed, or... I want you to feel at home here, ok?”

“Just don’t want you to regret asking me,” Daryl says, eyes on the floor. “Alex said you’re real picky about how you keep your room, and Wes-”

“Fuck those guys,” Paul spits out venomously, and Daryl visibly flinches backwards. In a split second Paul decides not to tell him that those assholes were messing with him--settling into Hilltop has been awkward enough for Daryl, even with Maggie, Enid, and Tara there to help. “Sorry, it’s just- they don’t know shit, alright? And it’s not just _my_ room anymore, it’s ours. So if something starts bothering me, I’ll tell you. And you can do the same. But you don’t need to be walking on eggshells, ok?”

“Yeah, ok,” Daryl says softly, believing him right away, and Paul’s heart glows at the trust.

After a moment Daryl falls back onto the bed, picking up his book again.

Paul sticks the saltine in his mouth whole and winds his way into the loop of the other man’s arms, until his head is on Daryl’s chest and his arms are wrapped around that soft stomach. Daryl snorts and adjusts his hold on his book.

\--

The next day Alex and Wes are threatened within an inch of their lives. Unaware, Daryl carefully guts a possum in the trailer’s kitchen.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon.

Tied hand and foot, guns to their temples, Paul has to admit this mission is not going well so far. He and Daryl had been scavenging rusty old boats tied to the small, rotten dock of a frozen lake when three Saviors surprised them, pointing rifles from the shore before Paul even realized they’d been spotted.

These Saviors aren’t soldiers, that much is obvious by the fact that they’d tied Paul and Daryl’s wrists in front of them. It’s also obvious by the fact that they seem lost about what to do next. One had walked back to the shore and up the road with her radio, trying to reach someone at the base for direction. The others pace the dock nervously, guns in hand. Paul’s hands are nearly free already, and then he just needs one of the guards to meander a little closer to him and they’re golden.

Glancing over to signal Daryl, he finds the other man in some kind of fugue state. Usually the archer is almost stupidly brave, but kneeling and bound, Daryl’s chest is heaving, his eyes are closed, and sweat is visible on his temple despite the icy wind.

“Hey, Daryl. Daryl, you alright?” Paul asks immediately, trying to scoot closer.

“Shut it,” one of the Saviors barks, kicking him viciously in the side. Paul slumps over onto the decrepit dock and feels the knot at his wrists give. He carefully holds the rope in place and begins flexing his ankles in tiny circular motions, not bothering to sit up again.

Daryl is still panicking, his breath audible over the wind and creaking wood. Paul’s reminded vividly of when he’d turned the corner at the Sanctuary and seen-

Right. Shit. The Sanctuary.

Daryl must think these oafs are going to take him back to Negan, that he would end up being tortured in a dark and dirty cell again.

Still flexing his ankles, Paul sits up again quickly, getting close to his friend. “Daryl- come on. Breathe. We’ve been through worse,“ he says in a low voice, keeping an eye on the Savior that just lashed out. Daryl meets his eyes, just a glimpse of blue through dark, overlong bangs. He’s blinking rapidly, still hyperventilating. Paul isn’t even sure the other man understands him. “Remember when that little prick stole our truck? And he somehow got on the roof?” he rushes to say, because the Savior is coming his way fast. “We survived that-”

The Savior cracks him hard across the mouth.

It doesn’t matter, Daryl got the message. He nods once, trusting that Paul has some kind of plan.

His breath is still coming too fast, though.

“Daryl, come on. Time your breathing with mine,” Paul says softly, ignoring the goon standing over them.

Then the prick kicks out, sending Paul sprawling backwards, and all hell breaks loose.

The rotten wood beneath them gives way, followed by the ice, sending Paul and the Savior both tumbling into the lake. The freezing water hits him much harder than the Savior’s blows, but Paul keeps his wits and gets his hands in the cretin’s hair.

It only takes a few moments for the Savior to stop kicking and yanking at his hold. Then Paul can’t get his head high enough to see what’s happening to Daryl, and every time he reaches for a piece of the deck to pull himself up the wood comes away in his hand. A gunshot echoes across the lake and he’s  shouting Daryl’s name before he can stop himself, voice high and unnatural.

Another gunshot sounds. Paul loses two nails trying to claw his way to the deck before a hand wraps around his wrist.

“Calm the fuck down,” Daryl scolds, holding his wrist still while holstering his gun with his other hand. “These three are dead, but who knows if that bitch got reinforcements on the way before I shot her.”

Paul only realizes that his body is shaking violently after Daryl hefts him out of the water and he tries to stand. Of course he topples immediately, barely coordinated enough to throw his injured hands out to break his fall. His fingers are bleeding from at least three or four giant splinters but he can’t feel them.

“Shit, man, you’re turning blue. Let’s get you outta here.” Moving closer, Daryl looks ready to put Paul in a fireman’s carry.

“Check the bodies. Weapons,” Paul manages to choke out, clumsily shoving him away.

“We need to get you warm or you’re gonna to lose a toe,” Daryl argues, forcing his way close and half-dragging him down the dock.

“Need guns more than toes.”

“Fuck’s sake. I’ll get you in the car, then I’ll come back, alright? Now quit bitching at me and try to move your legs.”

—

“Last winter weren’t this bad,” Daryl says in an accusing tone, as if Paul controls Virginia’s weather.

Still shaking, Paul doesn’t respond. His head feels foggy.

“Gonna have to hole up pretty close to here, we need to get you warmed up. I’ll keep watch.”

“The Saviors- reinforcements-”

“You got hypothermia, and I don’t know how bad. Quit arguing with me.” With a tiny smirk, Daryl adds, “’Sides, you’re too frozen to fight back, so you’re gonna do as you’re fucking told for once.”

Glaring through strands of sopping wet hair, the scout slumps back into his seat, resigned.

—

They return to the same cabin they’d stayed in the night before. It’s not safe—far too close to the dock where they’ve left three murdered Saviors—but Daryl won’t budge.

Paul really is too cold and tired to care all that much. It’s all he can do to get his boots off while Daryl lights a fire.

“You know the treatment for hypothermia?” Paul asks nervously. Daryl merely glares at him. “Ok, ok, sorry. You seem like the ‘shoot the messenger’ type. Just… the fire’s probably enough. I don’t think we really have to-”

“You’re seriously getting shy? _You?_ ” Daryl replies, chuckling. “Months of acting like you want to get me naked, and now you’d rather lose a foot?”

“Graduated from a toe to a foot now, huh?” Paul answers, because he doesn’t know what else to say. _Acting_ , Christ. If only.

Turning back to the fire, Daryl snorts. “Sorry, asshole, but this ain’t no time to be a blushing belle. Now strip so I can set your out clothes to dry.”

Still shivering, Paul follows orders, curling up under their two blankets immediately after. Despite his don’t-give-a-shit attitude, Daryl undresses out of view and crawls under the blanket slowly, like he’s expecting Paul to spring a trap.

Hell, Paul probably would have sprung something if it weren’t for the hypothermia. There’s a warm, surprisingly gentle Daryl pressing against his chilled skin, and he can distinctly feel the heat of a soft cock against the small of his back.

The hypothermia is the only thing keeping him from embarrassing himself.

“Try to sleep for a couple hours. I’ll wake you up and we’ll move on if you’re feeling better.” Daryl wraps his arms around Paul’s chest and pulls him closer.

“Not how I’d hoped to get you naked,” Paul slurs, drowsy. He can almost feel his fingers again.

“Hush, Paul,” Daryl says quietly, right in his ear.

Paul shivers.

–

Paul wakes up to Daryl thrashing around violently. Then he _really_ wakes up when he realizes why the other man is trying to escape like an animal caught in a trap: Paul’s rock-hard dick had been pressed against some unknown stretch of skin.

“Sorry!” Paul gasps, torn between horror and amusement. “Shit, Daryl, sorry-”

“Ain’t- ain’t _that_ ,” Daryl says, looking harried. “I fell asleep. No fucking clue what time it is, or…”

“Hey! Hey, it’s alright. If the Saviors had found us they’d already have done something about it. We hid the car, we’re alright, just… calm down. Relax. We’re good.”

Daryl seems to listen; at least he stops trying to fling himself out of the tangled nest of blankets. Instead he sits upright, fabric pooling in his lap and over his legs. Paul leans forward on an elbow, keeping his eyes firmly away from the top of Daryl’s ass and his broad, heavily scarred back. For different reasons, he finds he can’t look at either for very long if he wants to keep his cool.

“You thought I’d lose my shit over a boner?” Daryl asks suddenly, expression unreadable.

“Uh. Yeah, actually.”

There’s a long silence, during which Paul watches intently as Daryl’s ears, then his cheeks, flush slightly.

“Man, you know I’m- how the hell do you _not_ know-” Daryl pauses, gathering himself, then blurts out. “I fuck guys, you know.”

After a startled blink and an undeniable thrill, Paul says, “Not right now you don’t, we’ve got to get back to Hilltop. Get your head in the game.”

The flush deepens from soft pink to technicolor red. “I didn’t mean-”

Paul heroically hides his grin.

Later, in the car, he’ll tell Daryl how much he likes him. For now he stands up from their impromptu bed, dick still half-hard, and enjoys watching that blush climb down Daryl’s neck to his muscled chest.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you really need all that candy?” Prompted by the wonderful DrCloyd on tumblr :)

“Jackpot!” Paul sang out happily from somewhere around the corner. Grunting, Daryl paused in stacking a dozen bottles of water into a cardboard box to have a look.

The strip mall hadn’t been lucrative so far, and they hadn’t expected to find much of anything in the tiny dollar theater. Paul sounded pretty jazzed, though, so maybe some redneck manager had hidden a shotgun under the counter or something.

Daryl barely had time to get his hopes up when he turned the corner to find Paul loading box after box of Milk Duds into his pack.

He gave his boyfriend a look. “Do you really need all that candy?”

“What? This is gold! Do you know how excited the kids will be to have some sweets? We can ration it, keep some around for Christmas.”

He was beaming. It was cute, but for once Daryl didn’t find Paul’s enthusiasm contagious. “We need real food, man. With, I dunno, nutrition. Only got so much room in the car, we could try to hit some houses on our way back…” Paul snorted dismissively and kept shoveling candies into his bag. “Just gonna get those kids sick, eating old candy-”

“It’s still edible. This stuff lasts forever. Too much sugar and artificial crap to go bad.” Paul yanked a Hershey’s bar out of its wrapper and took a huge bite to prove his point, and his expression went a little strange. Daryl almost though the chocolate was rotten after all until he said, “Wow, that takes me back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just… the taste. Stale candy. At the- at the group home where I grew up, we didn’t usually have candy, and when we did it was donated. Old stuff with dusty wrappers, always close to the expiration dates.”

Daryl stared.

Paul  _never_ talked about his childhood.

His boyfriend was already loading up the brightly-colored goodies again like nothing unusual had happened. Shifting his weight, Daryl fought his blank mind, tried to get his mouth to work.

“Bet Judith ain’t ever had half of these,” is what came out.

“I’ll save her one of each to try,” Paul replied, not looking up. “We can load her up on sugar next time we babysit.”

“Toss me a Kit-Kat,” Daryl said next, knowing he was utterly failing as a boyfriend but unable to think of a single useful thing to say.

Paul threw him one over his shoulder without looking. Daryl still caught it easily, and he cautiously took a bite.

“You’re right, ain’t bad.”

“Yeah,” Paul said softly, stowing away the last of the packages.

“We can ration some, but let’s give the kids one each, right when we get back. They’ll go nuts.” Daryl fidgeted. “Kids deserve treats and shit sometimes. Candy. Good things.”

God, he was awful at this.

Paul still smiled at him as he pulled the pack on. “Ok, we will,” he said, sounding a little brighter.

Unable to help himself, Daryl pulled him into a hug. The smaller man stiffened at first but eventually returned it, laughing a little. “I’m alright, Daryl. Let’s get home. Maybe Hershel can even gum at a Twizzler or something if we get there before his bedtime.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For waytoooldforshipping and an anon on tumblr! Prompts AND trigger warnings listed at the end for this one.

 

Looking down into unfocused dark eyes, Daryl has to fight back a tear. Herschel has his daddy's eyes--what Daryl once would have labeled 'squinty' and now can only think of as beautiful. The newborn's hair, such as it is, is also dark, but Maggie told him that could change in the coming months.

Maggie's fine, but good lord, the screaming had been hard to bear. Tara had had to stop him from bursting into the medical trailer more than once to demand just what the fuck that quack doctor was doing to her and where he'd gone to med school, if he even had. Not that Daryl knew the difference between the good schools and bad ones, but he hadn't exactly been rational after listening to Maggie holler bloody murder for several hours. Finally Rick and Michonne had shown up from Alexandria and assured him it was all normal--that helped some. Michonne went in to give Enid a break, Rick forced some liquor into Tara and Daryl, and an hour or so later they were meeting the newest addition to their ragtag little family.

It's late now. Maggie's getting some well-deserved rest, and he's in charge of watching Herschel while she does.

He finds he can't bring himself to put the baby down, so he paces the library with him. Herschel's quiet, blinking occasionally but mostly napping.

"I hear we're going to be co-godparents."

Daryl startles badly. Fortunately the baby doesn't seem to mind, just blinking again at the unexpected jostling.

Spinning around, he sees Jesus leaning casually against the door jamb.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

"Maggie sent me to find a, uh, breast pump," the scout answers. "We had a hand operated one, but apparently those suck compared to the automatic pumps. Or, uh, I guess they don't suck enough, actually."

The joke falls flat. Neither man is great with all this birth- and baby-related stuff.

"Wouldn't have gone if I'd known I'd miss this little guy's grand arrival," Jesus says next, nodding at Herschel. "May I?"

Grunting, Daryl carefully hands the tiny baby over. Paul holds him gingerly and sits in a large leather chair, smiling down at his godson.

Stomach flipping, Daryl turns away, fiddling with a random book on the wall.

"I also picked up some childcare books... for me, not for Maggie. You’re not interested, are you? Or did you also get plenty of practice on Judith?"

The hunter just grunts again, noncommittally.

"You're going to have to talk to me again eventually, you know."

"Talking now." The book's leather cover is flaking a little. He picks at the binding, tearing off a tiny strip.

"Daryl..."

"What, you want to have it out here, with him?" Turning, Daryl gestures at the child in Jesus's arms without looking directly at the other man.

He has no intention of being dragged into this conversation.

He also isn't going to leave Herschel, though. He'd told Maggie he'd stay until she needed to feed him again.

Jesus quirks a sad half-smile. "I don't think he'll spill our secrets to anyone." He lays his head back in the chair, seeming exhausted all of the sudden, his hair glinting golden in the low lamplight. "Just tell me how to fix it, ok? We don't have to talk about what... what happened, if you don't want. But at least tell me how I can make it right."

"Didn't do nothing wrong," Daryl corrects before he can think twice about it. Damn Jesus's manipulative little tricks.

"You were drunk and you didn't want it, you've made that abundantly clear, so I must have-"

"Man, you were just as drunk. And I- I did." Looks like they're doing this now. Daryl grits his teeth. "You didn't fucking... take advantage, if that's what you're thinking. I'm a grown-ass man. And besides, it was just a damn kiss. Ain't some big deal."

"Then _why_ -" Jesus bursts out. Then Herschel lets out a little whimper and he immediately shuts up, focusing on gently bouncing the baby in his arms for a moment. He begins again, more calmly. "You haven't said more than ten words to me since that night. You're avoiding me. You won't even look at me."

Defeated, Daryl sits across from him. His heart pounds unpleasantly. He knows Jesus isn't an asshole like some of the guys he's had this talk with--he _knows_ it. He won’t wake up to find his business, his _defectiveness_ , spread all over Hilltop.

But he also knows that Jesus will probably still be angry. He’ll feel deceived. Because kissing a guy the way Daryl had kissed him has implications, ones Daryl won't be following through with.

Bracing himself, he stammers, "I don't do... that."

"You don't make eye contact? Or talk?" Jesus says, sarcastic.

It takes Daryl a moment to figure that sentence out. "Nah, like... kissing and shit. Anything like that. I don't."

"You did a really good impression of it last week."

"I mean... look, anything more than that, I just... don't like it." Hearing ghosts from his past and their million objections, Daryl adds quickly, "I've tried. Sex just ain't- like, my dick works fine, but- and I know it ain't normal, but nothing I try ever-"

Goddamn it. _Well, this is going great_ , Daryl thinks as he stops for a breath. _Just peachy._

"You're asexual," Jesus blurts out, like it’s some big revelation.

Daryl stares blankly at him.

"Sex isn’t something you enjoy. Not for a medical reason, not because something's wrong." Daryl stares some more, and Jesus adds weakly, "It's- it's an orientation."

Daryl hadn't known there was a word for it. He hadn't known there were enough people like him to need a word.

"Yeah, that," he says, to cover.

They're quiet for a moment. Jesus hums a little to Herschel while Daryl squirms. The younger man looks thoughtful, which is better than the laughter or disbelief Daryl's encountered so often in the past, but it's still a little disconcerting.

"Yaint gonna say nothing to nobody, right?"

Jesus's mouth pulls down on one side. "No, I won't."

Quiet again. A clock ticks so loudly that Daryl wonders how Herschel can sleep through the racket.

"Did you like kissing me?" Jesus asks.

"What?"

"Kissing. Do you like kissing, or was that- was it because you thought-"

"Already told you I did."

Frowning some more, Jesus goes back to humming for the baby, rocking him gently.

It dawns on Daryl then, what's probably going on in Jesus's head. "I didn't mean to lead you on or nothing, alright? I was just drunk, and I guess I got caught up. But I shouldn't have-"

"You've liked me for awhile now," Jesus interrupts. "You have a subtle way of showing it, but... yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm right. You like me. And you don't just want to be friends, you want... more."

Daryl's mouth bobs open like a goldfish. "But I can't-"

"You like me, and you like kissing me, you just don't want to have sex. Correct?" Jesus doesn't wait for him to reply. "Because I can do that."

"Do  _what?_ "

"A relationship, with you, without sex. I can do that. I _want_ that, if you're interested."

This isn't a possibility Daryl’s ever considered. "Why in the hell would you..."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Again, the older man is speechless. It's so goddamn obvious why he wouldn't, too obvious to bother with an explanation, and yet Jesus doesn't seem to be messing with him. He looks deadly serious about this half-baked idea--he looks happy, even, like he's pleased with himself for solving some kind of riddle.

"Think about it, ok?" Jesus says, meeting his eyes.

Daryl nods dumbly.

On cue the baby starts crying, rescuing him. Both men are distracted by trying to comfort him until Maggie calls softly from the next room for them to bring Herschel to her.

The two men awkwardly look away while she breastfeeds, and they all agree Jesus will take the next shift watching him while Daryl gets some sleep. Daryl’s too exhausted and confused to try to argue, and besides, he knows he can trust Jesus to take care of their godson.

In the hallway before Daryl can walk away, Jesus catches his hand and slowly raises it to kiss his knuckles.

Nerves buzzing, Daryl crashes into sleep almost as soon as he gets to his room, a tiny smile clinging to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for ace phobia and mentions of sexual assault.
> 
> Prompts were: “You’re not interested, are you?” and ace!Daryl/Jesus.
> 
> Not something I’ve written before, hopefully it’s ok. I want to clarify that Daryl’s internalized acephobia in no way reflects my opinion of asexuality, and his “I’m a grown-ass man” moment in no way reflects my beliefs about men and sexual assault.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr anon message: "Let's all be real: the only reason Daryl's shirt still has sleeves is because he borrowed it from Jesus."
> 
> And also thank you @juliansalec on Tumblr--she wrote a great ficlet with Tara being a teasing brat and that's my jam, so I got inspired :)

 

“Hot as balls out here.”

Daryl was sweating heavily, standing next to Rick on the guard tower keeping watch. He was starting to smell, but Rick hardly noticed things like that anymore. As the sun crawled higher and higher, both men got damper and redder, their sweat dripping into old stains in their shirts.

Now that the war was over, they really needed to raid a shopping center or something--find some new clothes, especially with Judith growing like a weed.

“So why haven’t you butchered that one yet?” Rick asked idly, nodding at Daryl’s shirt. “You used to, all the time.” Tara was walking over with two bottles of lemonade; he thought he might kiss her.

Confused, Daryl looked down at his shirt. It took him a moment to figure out what Rick meant. “Borrowed it.” He swung over the side of the rail to climb down to Tara. “It’s Paul’s, really. Just ain’t given it back yet.”

“Daryl, you’ve been wearing it for months. I doubt Jesus wants it back _now_.”

“Oh, he might,” Tara chipped in from where she was waiting for Daryl at the bottom of the makeshift ladder.

“Even if he does, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you taking off the sleeves,” Rick said reasonably.

“No, he _definitively_ would not mind that,” Tara said, deadpan, handing over the lemonade.

Daryl grunted his thanks, put one bottle in his back pocket, and climbed awkwardly back up to the platform with the other tucked under his arm.

“Thanks, Tara! See you in a couple hours.” Smirking a little, Rick downed about half the bottle in one long drag. Only once Tara was out of sight did he say, “You do know what that’s about, right?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, glaring vaguely over the wall. He was holding the cool bottle against his neck. “You’re all assholes, that’s what.”

“Maybe so... but she’s not wrong.”

Grimacing, Daryl cracked open the bottle and took a gulp.

They didn’t speak again for the rest of the afternoon, but Rick noticed that Daryl’s eyes must have drifted over to Jesus’s trailer about fifty times before their shift finally ended.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon for a His Dark Materials crossover.

 

 

The first few days Daryl spent at the Hilltop, Maggie hardly saw him. She sometimes caught a glimpse of his grayish coyote daemon, always with its tail between its legs and its scruffy ears pulled back, slouching around buildings as Daryl fled from her–from the conversation they needed to have. Maggie’s otter daemon tried a couple of times to approach, but even that sent the coyote whimpering away.

Daryl and Maggie have their talk, finally, and it helps a little. Daryl at least stops living outside to avoid her. He still hardly speaks to anyone, though, and spends much of his time cleaning weapons, making bolts, and otherwise preparing to fight.

It’s why she’s so surprised the first time she sees the coyote scurry behind a bush, moving faster than she’s seen it go in weeks, loping after Jesus’s bright orange fox daemon. Jesus just returned from a trip to Alexandria with Rick and Michonne in tow, and a small group of early risers are sitting together for breakfast around a campfire. By all appearances Daryl and Jesus are ignoring each other: Daryl is eating by himself in the shadows against a tree, and Jesus is sitting on a bench talking to a small group of Hilltoppers.

At first Maggie assumes the daemons must be fighting. Then she sees the coyote lower its head to its front paws, tail wagging hesitantly, as the fox slinks around a table and darts away again. Daryl’s daemon catches up in a flash and pins the fox easily.

Maggie’s eyebrows shoot up as the coyote grooms the fox’s ear for a moment before Jesus’s daemon wriggles free. This time the fox chases the coyote, pouncing wildly and missing its prey as the coyote rushes around the edges of the campfire circle, skidding in the dirt.

Others in the group start to notice as the daemons pick up speed.

Daryl stands suddenly, whistles, and walks towards the gate, scooping up his crossbow as he goes. He might be blushing, but Maggie can’t tell for sure in the early morning light. His daemon follows, head high, and Jesus’s fox jumps to perch on a table. It watches them go on their hunt, licking at its paw delicately, even though Jesus doesn’t turn away from telling some kind of story to Dante, Bertie, Enid, and Sasha.

Rick steps up beside Maggie and grins, leaning in a bit so no one else can hear. “Those daemons, they’ve been doing that ever since Jesus stole our sorghum truck.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that the daemons here might not behave like those in His Dark Materials… it’s been forever since I read it, I just vaguely remember the animal spirits :-/ Hope it’s ok!
> 
> And lastly, a huge thank you @saintdixie on tumblr (samuelbyrnes here on AO#) for letting me steal the idea of Paul as a playful fox from your AU :) Go check it out in the Infinite Realities Infinite Desus fit, chapter sixteen!


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon in the endnotes.

Paul stumbles out of the room and snaps the door closed quickly, leaning against it as if to keep it closed. Behind him he can hear grumbles and snarls, but he thinks he should be safe for now.

To his surprise he sees Daryl sprawled in a chair nearby, smoking a cigarette.

“Y’alright?” the redneck asks laconically on an exhale.

“No,” Paul says honestly. “No, I’m really not.” He pitches his voice low, almost a whisper.

“Over soon, anyhow.”

“It could be a month, Daryl. Another _month_ of this.”

Daryl shrugs.

Behind the door, there’s a soft noise. Then another.

Fuck. Maggie had just been yelling at him a minute ago, screaming and sending him away in disgrace over his supposed recklessness and failure at keeping himself safe.

But now she’s in there alone, and she’s _crying_.

He has to go back in.

Miserable, Paul let’s his head fall into his hands.

“I got it,” Daryl says, standing.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Daryl smirks a little. “We’ve faced scarier things than a pregnant lady, man.”

“Oh yeah? Try going in there with that cigarette still lit. See if you come out alive again.”

“Good call.” Daryl stomps the butt out right on Barrington’s House’s antique rug and slides past to help Maggie through whatever curveball the pregnancy hormones were throwing at her this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt is for terrified Paul and Daryl dealing with a very pregnant and hormonal Maggie :)


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt from tumblr: “You’re not helping.”
> 
> This isn’t Desus… I sincerely apologize.

 

Daryl glared, not sure if he was being mocked.

“Don’t be like that. You know what I mean.”

“Maid of honor?” he growled. He ratcheted up the glare a little more to make sure she could see it in the dark.

“ _Like_ a maid of honor. But, well. You.”

She had to be fucking with him.

“You’ve gotta be fucking with me.”

She wasn’t. He could tell in how she lost her patience. “For goodness sake. It’s not hard, Daryl. All you’d have to do is stand up there next to me. Jerry is standing by Zeke. It’s just a silly tradition, but we wanted… well. We thought it’d be nice.”

The false cheery note in her voice just annoyed him more. “Ask Maggie. Michonne. Enid.” The place was literally _crawling_ with women, for fuck’s sake. “Tara. Rosita. Nabila. _Judith_ -”

“I’m asking you, Pookie,” she interrupted.

Damn her.

 _Damn_ her.

“What do I have to do?”

Carol smiled, tucking her head against his shoulder.

–

It turned out there was more to it than just standing beside her.

“What about this one?” she asked, coming out of the dressing room for the fifth time. 

It looked like the exact same goddamn dress.

“S’nice,” he grunted, fletching a bolt.

They were alone in a creepy abandoned bridal store, mannequins in veils eerily haunting his peripheral vision. It had never been raided, at least, so they were taking a shitload of something called ‘Jordan almonds’ back to the Kingdom with them.

“I don’t know, I think liked the other one better. The one with the sleeves.” She turned around again, back to the changing room. Then she added, “You’re not helping us get out of here any faster, you know.”

Something awful occurred to him as he scanned the store for any threats. “Hey, I ain’t gotta get something, do I?”

“What?” Carol poked her head out.

“Like…” he gestured behind him at the men’s section. “I ain’t gotta…”

“No!” she exclaimed, and she was laughing at him behind her eyes. “Honey, I wouldn’t do that to you. Although if you could maybe try to be _clean_ …”

He rolled his eyes.

“We wouldn’t want anyone upstaging the bride and groom, right?” she asked rhetorically from back inside the dressing room.

He guessed that made sense.

“Only Zeke and I are dressing fancy, and I wouldn’t be doing it if he weren’t insisting.”

Yeah, he’d heard the guy, yammering about Carol looking like a  _queen_. Christ.

Frowning, he checked outside to see where the sun was at–it had barely moved–then continued stoically with his bolt.

When she stepped out again, though, he couldn’t help but gasp a little.

The other dresses had been… kinda frouffy. Not like her. This one was simpler at first sight, a plain sleeveless ivory thing without some overblown skirt that’d turn into a deathtrap if walkers decided to ambush the big day. Its apparent simplicity was belied by an intricate flower pattern stitched in all over, just little whirls above the waist and then everywhere on the skirt.

She looked beautiful.

He should tell her that, he knew, but he just swallowed and picked up his bolts and crossbow instead.

“Pack it up,” he said, and she smiled brighter than he’d ever seen before.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from the previous chapter.
> 
> “You smell nice” and “Don’t mind if I do”
> 
> Prompted by the lovely sergeant-barnes on tumblr, who used to be greenerovia, who is lovely :)

Jesus stared into his mirror, wondering why he’d agreed to do this.

He was wearing a nice gray blazer, and contemplating a damned tie. His hair was clean and had dried in waves, his beard neatly trimmed.

None of that outweighed the nervous twitch of his eyelid.

It was just turning into such an _event_. Rick had seized the opportunity afforded by the ‘royal’ wedding and invited the communities to come together for a festival of sorts. People would trade luxury items, tell stories, dance, and hopefully cement bonds across the communities. It was likely the largest gathering of people any of them had seen since the apocalypse began—at least, the largest gathering of living people.

And Jesus was going to have to stand in front of all those people out there and officiate a wedding.

His little prepared speech seemed impossibly stupid to him all of a sudden. What the hell did people say at weddings? Should he be reading Bible verses? Love poems? He’d been to exactly one wedding before the turn, and that had been officiated by a drag queen—probably not the sort of thing Ezekiel was looking for.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to ask Rick to do it instead. The man certainly liked to hear himself talk.

Just then, Daryl barged into the trailer as if possessed. Being Carol’s man of honor was stressing him out to no end, to the amusement of everyone else at the Hilltop.

He took one look at Jesus, scowled deeply, and said, “Nuh uh. No. Go change.”

Jesus looked down at himself, frowning. He and Daryl were always antagonizing each other—him trying to flirt, Daryl dismissing him with growls and glares—but this didn’t feel like that. Daryl seemed serious.

Great. His outfit had been the one thing he hadn’t felt insecure about. “Really? Why?”

“Don’t need you upstaging the bride and groom,” Daryl said, waving a hand at him.

Jesus blinked, then grinned slowly. “Are you saying… are you saying I look _too good_ in this outfit?”

Horror dawned on Daryl’s face, but it was too late and they both knew it. “No! I meant you- you look like a damn fool, nobody else is dressing up like a- like a-"

“You think I look good,” Jesus crowed, watching Daryl get more flustered by the moment. “Hey, don’t worry, you look lovely too- and you smell nice.”

It was true. Daryl had obviously cleaned himself up quite a bit. His clothes looked freshly laundered and his hair wasn’t greasy for once. Jesus let his eyes travel over him flirtatiously.

“I hate you,” Daryl said matter of factly, turning to leave and to hide his blush. “I fucking hate you.”

“And yet you think I’m so gorgeous that I’ll steal the show-"

“Bite me, Rovia.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jesus called after him.

The door slammed. Alone in the trailer, Jesus laughed to himself, shaking his head. He’d run his outfit by Carol before the ceremony began.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon on tumblr, sorry it took so long!!
> 
> “You believe me, don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU in which the group hasn't met the Heapsters. Spoiler alert, they don't exactly meet them here, either.

 

Paul is never the same after Maggie’s death in childbirth.

It’s not that Daryl can see any difference in his behavior when he’s at the Hilltop. He’s still friendly, still helpful, still kind.

Mostly, though, he’s just _gone_.

He checks in once a week, either in person with some crucial supplies or via the long-range radio Eugene set up for them. He’s gone for longer and longer stretches of time, and stays for shorter and shorter rests between runs. Daryl practically has the trailer to himself.

They’ve never really been all that close, not like Paul was with Maggie, but nevertheless Daryl feels a pull towards the lonely, secretive man. He wants to ask Paul to stick around more, or if he can go with him on some runs. The guy needs some company, some sort of touchstone to keep him sane and human.

Daryl thinks about asking every time he finds Paul reading or passed out asleep in the trailer they supposedly share.

Then one day, it’s too late, because Paul stops coming back at all.

–

On a three-week run, Paul missed his second check in.

Daryl only finds out about it by accident, when Dante asks Tara a few days later whether she’s heard from him yet.

They don’t seem worried– _”He probably lost the radio”_ –but Daryl is. He knows Paul is meticulous, and he’s religious about checking in on time. It was a system Maggie had set up for him, and he’d stuck to it.

Tara’s surprised when Daryl says he’s going to track him down, but she doesn’t fight him about it. Dante points him in the right direction, an old recycling facility Paul had wanted to scout, and Daryl’s gone the next morning.

It takes him a day to get to the recycling center on his bike, even though he only stops to piss and, once, to eat an apple and some jerky.

–

There were people living there recently. Daryl doesn’t need his tracking skills to tell him that. Some are walkers now, still fresh, and others are smears of blood and gore on the ground. Daryl tries not to look for bits of a leather jacket in the mess.

He feels sick, anxious. He reminds himself that he and Paul aren’t that close. His heart shouldn’t be catching like this. He should be able to calmly assess the situation.

It takes him a moment, but he slows his breathing. He takes down the walkers and listens for more–or, worse, for people.

He hears a soft rustle, coming from a rusty old iron boxcar in the middle of one of the trash heaps.

Daryl catches himself praying as he wrenches open the door.

A skinny, sweaty, mostly-naked force of nature catapults out of box and knocks him off his feet. Then there’s a rusty bit of metal, some kind of shiv, against his throat, and the last time Daryl was this goddamned relieved was when he found Carol alive back at the prison.

“Jesus!” He’s yelling, but it takes a moment before the disoriented man seems to hear him. “Jesus, it’s me! Hey, man, it’s just me. It’s Daryl.” He can feel the prick of metal against his throat.

Then, chest heaving, Paul collapses backwards. His skin is smeared with dirt and his hair is a wreck, tangled and greasy around his shoulders, which are noticeably bonier than they were three weeks ago. He’s been stripped to his underwear, a pair of green boxers.

Daryl’s forehead creases as Paul blinks at the sky and says, “I didn’t think anyone would come.”

Heart stuttering and stomach dropping, Daryl sits up. He knows he needs to get the other man to safety, and making a plan should be his next goal, but what comes out of his mouth instead is, “Look, I know I ain’t Maggie, but- you still got people, alright? After everything you did, after the war... people give a shit about you.” He stops awkwardly, but forces himself to go on, because Paul needs to know. “I give a shit, man.”

Paul blinks at him and doesn’t reply.

“You ain’t alone, s’what I’m saying. I was always gonna come for you.”

Paul still doesn’t reply, he just turns his face away.

Daryl frowns. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Paul says. His voice is wavering--he’s _crying_.

Busying himself by dragging some water out of his pack, Daryl gives him a moment before nudging him with the plastic bottle. “Drink up. We gotta get you home.”

Paul nods and drinks, tear marks still visible on his cheeks.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anon on tumblr, who just asked for a continuation of the last ficlet.

Paul can’t keep his eyes off of Daryl Dixon. Even more so than usual, which is... unnerving. He's beginning to worry that being locked in that storage container irreparably fucked up his brain.

He’s lost enough dignity today, crying like a kid when Daryl found him, and yet hours later he’s still struggling to get himself together.

It’s just that, after days of only seeing darkness, only hearing roamers banging clumsily at the door, only feeling rusty iron and his own sweat on his skin--Paul shudders and forces himself past the memories. After days of _that_ , the company of another person is intoxicating.

The two pain pills Daryl practically forced down his throat probably aren’t helping, either.

Daryl seems to take the staring in stride, at least. “Man, just eat the damn apple sauce. You need the calories.”

“You haven’t eaten anything since you found me,” Paul counters, because that was hours ago now. He’s already had a granola bar and the last of the jerky in Daryl’s pack.

Besides, he feels good. Loose and floaty. They’re holed up in a nice-ish house about halfway between the dump and Hilltop, ready to head home at first light. There’s a leather couch that seems inordinately soft after days in an iron prison. Paul stretches out, leaning his head back and curling his toes into the dusty carpet.

They hadn’t taken much time to search the dump for supplies, but they had found a large unopened jar of apple sauce near Paul’s discarded clothing. His pants are noticeably looser than before, and they’d been unable to find his socks and shoes.

“Ate before I got ya,” Daryl says, interrupting Paul’s enjoyment of the carpet.

“How long before?”

Daryl shrugs, still ignoring the apple sauce. He’s fidgeting with his lighter. The house had a bunch of lavender scented candles around, sitting on doilies on the old-fashioned furniture. The scent is almost sickly-sweet in the air.

Someone’s grandma must have lived here. For a moment the thought makes Paul sad. Christ, how strong were those pills?

“Ever heard of 'Never Have I Ever’?” Daryl says quietly.

Paul blinks, gaze darting between Daryl and one of the doilies. His attention span is flickering like the candles. “What?”

“It’s a game.” Daryl’s face is doing something weird. He’s blushing, for one thing, and not meeting Paul’s eyes. “You try to guess shit about the other person, and-”

“No, I know. It’s, um, it’s a drinking game, right?”

Daryl shrugs again. He’s definitely being weird. “Let’s play. Pass the time.”

“No liquor,” Paul says, still feeling like he’s missing something. “And I don’t think taking more of those pills would be a good idea.”

“We’ll play for the apple sauce. You take a bite of apple sauce, or I do. Or we both do. Like that.”

Paul squints at him.

“Someone’s gonna eat this fucking apple sauce,” is all Daryl says in response.

“Alright,” Paul says slowly, and Daryl hands him a plastic spoon.

\--

A few hours later, settling in to sleep with a good amount of apple sauce in his stomach, Paul thinks that he hasn’t talked about himself that much since Maggie died.

The next morning, he realizes that that was probably the point.


End file.
